


Postcards

by Lynchy8



Series: The Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst!, Boys in Berlin, Boys in New York, Boys in Paris, Budapest, Character Death, Depression, Did someone say something about a happy ending?, Disney, Fighting, M/M, Recovery, Running, Smut, Train Sex, Traumatic Brain Injury, because that's what R does - he runs, boys in Ireland, boys on holiday, by the way did I mention I was a horrible person?, catacombs, it was all going far too well, medication withdrawal, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 79,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire are away on their European adventure for R's work.<br/>It is set immediately after the end of Unhooking the Stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Budapest

_Hey Ferre,  
I’m writing this in a small café just off St Stephen’s Basilica. Budapest is beautiful but I’m sure I’d enjoy it a lot more if I had any of my stuff…_

“Please tell me this is a wind up.”  
Grantaire took a step back, not because Enjolras was shouting, but because he wasn’t. He was the image of cold fury, at once magnificent and terrifying. Grantaire was simultaneously spell-bound and scared to death.

“Please tell me that this is some sort of initiation ceremony to see how much I’ll put up with on this little trip of ours before I snap, brutally murder you and dump your body in the Danube.”

_Oh boy._

He had to admit, it hadn’t been the most auspicious start to their travels. On their arrival in Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport they had waited at the baggage claim, watching everyone else’s bags go round and round the carousel until it became painfully obvious that Enjolras’s neat red suitcase was not going to slide down any time soon.

This had been followed by a two hour wait while enquiries were made until it could be confirmed that it definitely hadn’t been on the flight. There had been placating apologies from polite but uninterested staff and they were advised to go to their hotel. When the bag was found it would be couriered over immediately but for now there was nothing further the airline could do.

Grantaire had been surprised how well Enjolras had taken the news. He had been calm, pleasant and had even thanked the unhelpful staff before they caught the metro to their hotel in Pest.

They had checked in to their modest three-star accommodation without further ado and he had thrown himself down on the bed, quite cheerfully. That, of course, was when it all went to hell.

“So, when is the rest of the stuff due?” Enjolras asked lazily, his eyes closed and his arm thrown across his face. Aire blinked at him in surprise.

“What stuff?” He saw his boyfriend tense, the slow removal of the arm so he could fix a look upon him.

“Our stuff. My stuff. The stuff we packed for the next six months.” He was frowning now, his lower lip pressed into a line with his cupid’s bow. Aire was transfixed. He knew he was about to throw himself under an Enjolras-shaped bus but he didn’t have that much choice. 

“Erm, it’s been shipped straight to Paris,” he muttered quietly, looking at the floor.

The truth was, they were only going to be in Budapest for two weeks. It was enough time for R to set up his installation and do a few other things before they went to France for the start of the Congregavit event. Once in Paris they were expected to be there for just over a month so a small apartment had been booked for them. All their belongings that had been packed for the trip had been sent straight there.

“So you’re telling me that all I have for the next two weeks is what I’m standing up in as well as anything I have in my hand luggage?”

No, not the best start.

+

Enjolras knew it wasn’t Aire’s fault. It wasn’t as if Aire had personally left his suitcase at Heathrow. But they hadn’t even made it through the first day and already it was all going wrong and Enjolras desperately wanted this to work.

He had wanted to arrive in Budapest, book into the hotel, perhaps become intimately aquainted with the hotel room and then go out for dinner or something and let Aire show him the city. Instead he was sitting in travelling clothes, glaring at the poor man before him and feeling as if this was a bad sign of things to come.

He certainly didn’t find it at all funny when Aire tried to say things could be worse. After all, he had his suitcase. All his stuff had arrived safe and sound. He decided the best thing to do would be to have a bath. Maybe he would feel better after that.

+

Enjolras groaned as the bed shifted.

“Where’re you goin’?” he muttered sleepily as Aire’s bare feet shuffled towards the bathroom.

“I’ve got to be at the gallery in an hour. You can stay here if you like,” came the soft reply. Enjolras tried to open his eyes, to make his brain work, but the bathroom door was already closed. By the time Aire reappeared he was already asleep again.

When he woke he was alone. The curtain had been pulled back slightly to allow some light into the room. Enjolras felt disorientated and strangely bereft. This is not how he thought his first morning away with Aire would start. He imagined a slow wake up, some lazy morning kisses, maybe more, before going out into the city together.

They hadn’t really resolved their disagreement from the night before. Aire had gone out to a deli on the corner and returned with some bread, cheese, fruit and wine and had constructed a supper in the hotel room. Enjolras had sulked in the bath for a long time, taking a leaf out of Jehan’s book.

When he finally emerged, Aire was flicking through the channels on the TV eventually settling on the French International channel which was showing what appeared to be a complicated soap opera. The soft chatter of the french language had a strangely soothing effect on his mood. He had laid back on the bed, still wrapped in his towel, helping himself to some of the bread and cheese.

They hadn’t exchanged many words but when they had shuffled beneath the sheets, he had allowed Aire to wrap him up in his arms, pressing his chest to Enjolras’s back and kissing him softly on the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry they lost your case,” he murmured. Enjolras hadn’t replied.

Now in the soft light of the morning he felt awful that Aire had left before he’d had the chance to kiss him and tell him it was all right. 

From the note on the desk it appeared that Aire would be gone for the day. He was told to help himself to anything he wanted from Aire’s suitcase and that he would be back at about 4pm. Enjolras had the whole day to himself.

The smiling receptionist had presented him with a map of the city and he had set off in the rough direction of Andrassy Ut, the main avenue in Pest. Already the temperature was in the high teens, even though it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning.

As he strolled slowly down the streets, glancing up at the old buildings and dodging the traffic, he wished more than anything that he had Aire had his side, filling the silence with his casual comments and observations. He felt unbelievably lonely.

Which was how he came to be sitting in a café with a postcard of all things, scribbling a note to his best friend. He desperately wanted something tangible, something familiar to cling to. He was hundreds of miles away from a home he wouldn’t be returning to any time soon, from friends that he was used to seeing every day. He wished he knew where exactly Aire’s installation was so he could join him. This would have to do.

+

Aire was in the shower when Enjolras returned to the hotel room. As he opened the door the first thing he saw, laid out prominently on the bed, was his suitcase. Suddenly Enjolras felt very foolish. 

From the bathroom he could hear Aire singing over the rushing of the shower water. Enjolras couldn’t suppress a smile. He tried the door of the bathroom, pleased to find it unlocked.

He called out to Aire so he didn’t scare the guy to death. He was rewarded by a glittering smile when the shower curtain was pushed back.

“Hey love, good day?” 

Enjolras smiled shyly at him, before starting to peel off the borrowed clothes.

“Not bad. I went to the Basillica and then had lunch by the Danube.” He wrenched off the socks and stepped into the tub to join his boyfriend.

“They found your case,” said Aire hopefully. He let out a surprised noise when Enjolras hugged him, pressing his head into Aire’s chest. He could feel the man shaking against him.

“I’m sorry I was such an arse.” He barely heard Enjolras over the shower, but he wrapped one arm around him, using the other to draw Enjolras’s head up for a kiss. Enjolras parted his lips to deepen the kiss, running his hands over Aire’s shoulders, but was surprised when the other man pulled back.

“Oh no, I’m not screwing you in this shower. The stuff is in the other room and, besides which, we’ll probably fall over and break our necks.” Enjolras chuckled in response.

+

“Let’s start again,” Enjolras muttered into Aire’s shoulder. They lay together in bed, damp curls tousled against the pillows, allowing their bodies to dry in the soft breeze coming through the hotel window. Aire hummed his agreement. 

“Did you want to go out for dinner tonight?” He asked gently, wondering how far this new good mood extended. Enjolras smiled at him warmly. 

They found a delightful little restaurant on one of the backstreets behind the Opera building on Andrassy Ut. Enjolras felt a flare of something in his chest as Aire tumbled easily into Hungarian, ordering drinks deftly and confidently. 

It was so strange to see him like this. Aire out of England was almost unrecognisable. Right now he was leaning back in his chair, wearing a loose brown cotton shirt that was open at the neck, revealing a coin strung on a strip of leather, his curls tumbling wildly round his head. His face was relaxed, his eyes bright and an easy smile making his whole face shine. He was Aire anonymous.

Enjolras managed to tear his eyes away from the enigma before him to exam the menu. His eyes swam, trying to pick out anything that looked familiar. He felt amused eyes upon him and looked up to Aire’s sympathetic smile.

“Do you want me to order for you?” he asked, before considering for a moment, his head on one side. “Or, actually, do you trust me to order for you?”

Enjolras glanced back down at the menu before nodding his agreement. When the waiter returned, he listened with a mix of wonder and jealousy as Aire deftly negotiated the words that Enjolras failed to understand.

“I ordered you the Liba-Sertés Pástétom to start. That’s goose and pork pate. Then the Cigány Gyors Tál for main. Medallions of Pork Fillet with Bacon, Onions and Paprika.” He looked hopefully at Enjolras for signs of approval. Enjolras licked his lips. That sounded amazing.

Half an hour later, in the cheerful atmosphere of the restaurant, they were chatting easily together. Aire’s installation was being displayed on one of the boats moored on the Danube. There were lots of boats down there that had been converted into bars and cafés. It made for an intimate and unique space and Aire was delighted with it. 

The last time he had been in Budapest he had done a series of works based on Memento Park over in Buda. The outdoor museum contained statues from the era of Communist rule in Hungary. These had been displayed in New York by JVJ and a request had been made for them to come to Hungary. Aire had spent much of today selecting which works to display.

He put down his wine glass and leaned forward towards Enjolras.

“Tomorrow, did you want to do something in the afternoon? I only have to be at the gallery until one o’clock.” There was a strange light in his eyes, a spark of interest. Enjolras found himself caught up in the man’s enthusiasm. He nodded. Aire sat back in his chair, grinning.

“There’s a museum here that’s got you written all over it.” He took another sip of wine. “The House of Terror.”

+

Enjolras stood before the formidable building, staring up at it, his eyes wide. The House of Terror. The name was almost comical but the subject matter couldn’t be more horrifying. 

He tried to imagine what it must have been like, fifty or sixty years ago, when this building served as the Head Quarters, initially for the fascist Arrow Cross men and then later for the Communists. It was here that you would be taken for interrogation. 

Along the outside of the building were a number of porcelain images of men and woman who were victims of this building, who had entered its doors and had simply vanished. They were mostly very young, in their twenties at most. Enjolras suppressed a shudder.

+

“It must have been a very lonely end,” Aire mused as they wondered through the basement of the building, glancing into the reconstructed cells before entering a very sad little room set up with a gallows. The guidebook advised them that it was to give visitors an idea of the fate that met those rebels who fell foul of the regimes. Enjolras’s face was fixed and hard, his spine straight and his head held high.

“They died for what they believed in,” he said quietly, his voice tight. Aire, for once, kept his opinions on that to himself.

+

Back out in the late April sunshine, they felt the warmth slowly return to their souls. The House of Terror had certainly left its mark.

Rather than returning down the Avenue back towards the hotel, Aire led them further up and away from the Danube until they came to a large square. It was very clean

“Hősök tere,” announced R, smiling brightly at Enjolras, who looked at it with a confused expression. It looked like any other square in any other city; an expanse of space with a column in the middle. 

Aire strode towards it. He liked Heroes Square. When he had first stumbled across it, he had been reminded of another square in another city. It had made him think of Enjolras and trees and home. A week later he had received that terrible telephone call from his Grandfather. Five months later Enjolras was back in his life. Nearly a year later he was standing once again in that square only Enjolras was now by his side. He turned to the man in question, trying to express the joy he was feeling. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile back.

+

On his way back to the hotel, Enjolras stopped by a street vendor to pick up another post card and stamp. Aire eyed him with amusement as he quickly scribbled a message on it before pushing it into the nearest post box.

_Hi Ferre, me again._  
 _I think Budapest and I have come to an understanding._  
 _Everything is going to be fine._  
 _E x_  


+

That night they lay together in the dark. Enjolras’s mind was full of the poor souls who had died in the House of Terror, as well as those who had survived the building itself, only to be shipped off to the gulags. He was pulled from his reverie by a heavy sigh to his right. 

“You ok?” he said, turning towards him. Aire was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“I miss Jehan’s gauloises.” 

“Just his gauloises? Not Jehan himself?” Enjolras found it hard to suppress the incredulity in his tone. Aire huffed at him, irritated.

“Give me a break Enjolras. I’m having a moment here.”

He’d never been homesick before. He had spent all that time trekking back and forth from America to Siberia and nearly every country in between, never stopping in any place long enough to miss it. He had missed his Grandparents to a certain extent, and he had missed Enjolras, but this was different. Missing Enjolras had been a permanent scar that he’d created himself.

Now he was missing things. He missed going to the pub with his mates. He missed sitting on the balcony of the flat, listening to the hum of the London traffic and the terrible glow of the light pollution. He missed the sound of Courf’s door key or waking up on a Sunday to Jehan’s British Dance Band music. He missed the smell of his studio.

Enjolras reached over to him, pulling him close and breathing him in. He stroked Aire’s curls gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Well, as we’re having a moment,” he confessed into Aire’s skin, “I miss Combeferre’s red pens.”

R smiled as they twisted together under the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Budapest is a fabulous city.
> 
> A note on Combeferre's red pens: Enjolras is usually in need of a pen and Combeferre, being a teacher and his best friend, is usually the one to ferret around in his pockets before producing a red pen. It has become something of a joke in the group that Enjolras only writes in red, but that's just because it's Ferre's pens for marking school work.


	2. To Breathe Paris Preserves the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Champs Elysee, Saint Michel and old Beaujolais wine. And I recall that you were mine in those Parisienne days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for bones?

_Guys, I bet you know this already – I bet Ep told you the second I got on the damn plane – but when they said I was going to Paris what they neglected to mention was that it was the CENTRE POMPIDOU BABY!!!!_

R hadn’t realised that he was holding his breath until he let it go with relief at the sight of Enjolras’s bag on the carousel. He retrieved it and handed it to his boyfriend with a smile. Enjolras rolled his eyes, trying to return an encouraging smile but not entirely convinced he was successful.

As they walked together through the arrivals area, they spotted a familiar face bouncing up and down on the other side of the barrier, waving her arms about. R broke into a wide smile and sped up his pace.

Eponine flung herself on him, nearly strangling him in the process. Enjolras stood back, giving them a moment. 

“Bloody hell, Ep, take it easy,” grumbled R, good naturedly. She gave him a light punch in the arm, before turning to give Enjolras a slightly more reserved hug of welcome. 

“How was Budapest? Still talking to each other then? No major meltdowns?” She was grinning broadly at them, as though it had been months rather than weeks since she had last seen them both. The two men shot quick glances at each other, R smiling sheepishly while Enjolras went slightly pink about the ears.

Eponine had flown out to New York the week before the boys had left for Hungary and her transformation in the intervening weeks was very noticeable. She seemed to carry herself differently. Her whole body was relaxed and confident and her eyes twinkled. Cosette had evidently rubbed off on her.

She directed them towards the exit of the airport where a limousine was waiting for them, chatting as she went. All three scrambled into the back of the limo and it purred out of the airport, turning towards Paris.

Enjolras left R and Eponine to catch up, choosing to look out of the window. It was just before five o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. The city was holding its breath, waiting to release its workers for another evening.

It struck him that Paris gave the impression of being a short city; an optical illusion caused by the construction regulations, meaning that buildings were usually uniform in height. The cobbled streets rumbled beneath the tires of the limo as they navigated their way through the traffic.

Eponine was telling R about the apartment she had organised for them.

“You’re staying in the 8th arrondissement,” she turned to Enjolras who nodded as if that meant anything to him. As long as there was a bed, a bath and a change of clothes then he would be fine. 

The apartment was perfect. Shuttered windows looked down onto the busy Parisian streets below, the soft hum of the city breaking through the muslin curtains. The bed took up most of the room in the main bedroom and the second bedroom was even smaller, although it was R’s intention that the second bedroom would remain unused. 

The living room was quite spacious and well decorated, although currently full of boxes. The kitchen was absolutely tiny and had quite possibly been a broom cupboard in a past life, but there was an oven and a fridge which was really all they needed.

Enjolras squeezed R’s hand. It was their first place together, even if it was only for a month. They turned back to Eponine who was waiting for a verdict. She was relieved to see their happy faces. She stepped forward, clutching an envelope.

“This is your itinerary,” she said, smirking slightly as she handed it over. R eyed her suspiciously as he tore it open and shook out the paper within. The smirk broadened as she watched his face transform. He jerked his head up to stare at her.

“Is this for real?” he managed to squeak, his voice strangled with effort. Eponine started to giggle, nodding enthusiastically. Enjolas reached out to pluck the paper from his boyfriend’s hands, just as R turned to sink down onto the sofa.

“The Centre Pompidou?” He looked to them both for clarification.

“It’s the largest collection of modern and contemporary art in Europe. JVJ has managed to convince them to let the Congregavit do a display,” R almost whimpered through his fingers. He looked up at Eponine accusingly.

“How long have you known that?” He knew from the look on her face that she wouldn’t answer. He returned to massaging his eyes with his hands. The Centre Pompidou. His work displayed in the Centre Pompidou. There were no words.

+

Eponine left not long after, giving R strict instructions not to be late the following day. Enjolras sat down on the sofa next to R who was still shell-shocked about where in Paris his work was to be displayed. Enjolras reached over to take his hands and began to play with his fingers.

“I’m very proud of you,” he said quietly, a small smile on his lips. R pulled a face but allowed Enjolras to continue manipulating their fingers together. After a moment he looked up, pausing to enjoy the way the sunlight splashed across his boyfriend’s face, before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He reached up to rest his hand on R’s throat, turning his face slightly so he could kiss him properly. He felt Aire respond, his shoulders relaxing, releasing a soft sigh against Enjolras’s lips.

Hands began to move, to explore as they shifted round on the sofa, Enjolras pressing Aire back against the cushions so he was practically lying down. His fingers lightly found their way under the hem of Aire’s shirt, ghosting across the skin. He felt Aire’s hands rubbing across his back, pressing through the fabric of his t-shirt. Aire groaned beneath him, already half hard.

Enjolras slowly began to kiss down the man’s throat, taking his time, enjoying the way Aire moved, bending to provide Enjolras better access to his neck. He began to undo the buttons, one at a time, pushing the fabric back to reveal Aire’s chest. At each button, he pressed a kiss to the warm skin beneath before moving to the next.

Aire was now lying back against the sofa, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of Enjolras’s fingers and lips as they headed south. He shuddered as Enjolras licked from just below his navel in a line down to where his trousers rested on his hips. There was a brief moment of fumbling as Enjolras unclipped the buckle of the belt and then his trousers were being pushed and pulled down his legs. He managed to lift his hips to facilitate their removal.

Enjolras licked him through his boxers, making him huff a breath, trying and failing to control his reaction. He allowed his eyes to flicker open, to meet the steady blue of the man above him. Enjolras was staring at him intently. Then strong, determined lips were pressed upon him, a final kiss while an inquisitive hand pressed against his boxers. He let out a needy whimper and Enjolras smirked against his lips.

Enjolras’s nimble fingers peeled R’s boxers down to his thighs before running his fingers lightly over R’s shaft, enjoying how the man shivered beneath him. Aire’s eyes were closed again, his breath coming now in huffs and puffs at Enjolras’s attentions.

When Enjolras eventually took him into his mouth, Aire’s hands automatically found their way to his head, wrapping his fingers lightly in the golden curls they knew so well. Enjolras hummed with pleasure, sucking softly. Above him, Aire had started to mutter. 

He took more and more of him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. He so rarely did this for R; he was going to make this really special. He brought his hands up to Aire’s cock, one hand applying pressure to the base of the shaft while the other cupped his balls and pressed against the perineum, causing the other man to buck and twist.

Aire let out a moan of frustration as Enjolras pulled off him. He ran his index finger round the inside of his cheeks, getting it as wet as possible, before returning to lick at R’s slit. He suckled on the head for a moment while his moistened finger went exploring between Aire’s cheeks, circling and pressing against the man’s entrance. 

“Fuuuu,” Aire appeared to be beyond coherency as he arched his back, pressing down towards that teasing finger, all the while Enjolras continued to suck him off.

Aire was beginning to rock underneath him now, thrusting upwards into Enjolras’s mouth, whilst simultaneously seeking satisfaction downwards towards his finger. The fingers in Enjolras’s curls began to clench compulsively and the groans and moans got louder.

Enjolras pressed his finger inside R, trying to be as careful as possible, aware of the lack of lubricant. R didn’t seem to mind at all, as he huffed an almost satisfied sound at his touch. He crooked his finger, searching for that perfect place to press. He felt a wave of gratification as Aire lurched upwards as he found it.

After that, R seemed to give up entirely, urgently fucking upwards into Enjolras’s mouth, emitting a steady stream of oaths, showing his appreciation. He managed to cry out a warning but Enjolras steadfastly sucked him through his orgasm, forcing himself to swallow. Aire let out the most pitiful whimper as he pulled back, withdrawing his finger and sitting back on his heels. Aire lay broken against the sofa, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with effort as he came back down.

Enjolras quickly took care of himself, his hand moving speedily, dragging himself to orgasm before he fell forwards on top of R who managed to wrap his arms around him, drawing him close.

“Well,” gasped Enjolras into his shoulder, shifting into a more comfortable position. “That’s the sofa christened. What say we do the bed next?”

+

Enjolras hated waking up to an empty bed. It seemed so unnatural, especially as the man who should have been occupying the space next to him was so notorious for sleeping in. Evidently, Paris had seeped under Aire’s skin.

He stumbled out into the main living area of the apartment but R was nowhere to be seen. There didn’t appear to be a note left anywhere so wherever he had gone, he didn’t expect to be long. Enjolras decided to hop in the shower while he waited.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he could hear Aire singing in the kitchen, the scent of coffee and pastries floating through the apartment. He turned as he heard Enjolras approach, his face lighting up.

“Ah, bonjour monsieur!” he called out jovially. With a great flourish, he presented a plate of croissants, some pain au chocolat and pain au raisins.

“Fresh from the pâtisserie on the corner.” Enjolras took a pain au chocolat, still warm in his fingers, and bit into it, sending crumbs everywhere. It was quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.

They ate in a contented silence, supping on coffee. Aire handed over a copy of Le Monde which he insisted Enjolras should try and read to improve his vocabulary.

“Did you want to come and watch me set up?” he asked Enjolras, suddenly looking a little shy. Enjolras hadn’t come with him in Budapest, although he had visited the gallery a number of times as a paying customer. This, however, was slightly different.

Enjolras brushed the crumbs from round his mouth, struggling to swallow so he could deliver his answer.

“I’d love to,” he asserted enthusiastically. He felt something in his chest tighten as Aire’s face broke into a happy and surprised smile.

+

The Centre Pompidou was twenty minutes from the apartment on the Metro. The building itself stuck out somewhat against the 19th Century architecture that surrounded them. It was a haphazard construct of glass and metal. He turned to comment on it to R but noticed that the man had gone rather pale. He reached down to squeeze his hand reassuringly.

On entering the large atrium, they could see signs everywhere advertising the upcoming Congregavit event. As there was no sign of Eponine, they approached the information desk to enquire where they should go.

Enjolras had loved hearing Aire speak in Hungarian but that was nothing to how he spoke French. He spoke with a real warmth for the language, gesticulating with his hands while leaning casually on the desk. The staff member smiled appreciatively as they conversed together. Occasionally Enjolras thought he picked out a word that he recognised but he had always been better at reading rather than listening to French. After a few more moments they were issued with a pass each and led through various doors and corridors into the depths of the centre.

Eventually they were led to a room that was mostly empty apart from various large crates used for transporting canvases. Each was stamped with JVJ on the side. R got to work.

He prised open the first crate and started pulling out pieces haphazardly, organising them into piles, leaning them against the walls, considering them, moving them, returning some of them to the crate. Enjolras stood back a little, giving him plenty of room to work. He was enthralled.

He was watching R so intently that he jumped when he realised someone was standing next to him. A guy in his late teens had approached him, clutching a guide book. From the shirt he appeared to be a member of staff. The guy looked at him with wide eyes, as though in terrified awe of Enjolras.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur, je suis désolé de vous déranger. Pourriez-vous signer ça pour moi s'il vous plaît?”

Enjolras understood the “please” at the end of the question, but the rest of it was lost to the young man’s nerves and strong accent. He paused for a moment, unsure what to do. The guy had obviously asked him a question.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again slowly?” he asked, his eyes seeking out R, hoping the man could turn around and help him out.

“Please,” the guy started, holding the programme out to him, whilst considering his next word. “For me, may you write this?” Enjolras took the programme and examined it. It was obviously a few years old, with crinkled corners. It was from another gallery in France and he recognised the Floor of Books painting on the front.

Aire had turned around now and walked slowly over to them.

“Everything ok?” Enjolras looked at him helplessly, holding out the programme.

“He said he wanted me to write this?” he shrugged in confusion, his eyebrows knitted together. He felt extremely frustrated, like he should be better at this. Aire took the programme from his hands, smiling warmly at it, running a finger over the cover. He turned to the young man in front of him.

“Avez-vous visiter cette exposition?” he enquired, looking kindly at the guy, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Je sais que c'est censé être un secret, mais j'espérais monsieur aurait l'amabilité de le signer pour moi.” Aire’s eyes shot to Enjolras, evidently amused by something. He spoke a few more words, nodding reassuringly and gesturing with the programme. The young man left, smiling.

Enjolras turned to Aire to ask him what the hell had just happened, but Aire was smiling wistfully at the programme, flicking carefully through the pages.

“One of my exhibitions. This is from two years ago, the Promyshlennyi series. It was displayed briefly in The Village in Bazouges-la-Pérouse.” He looked up, a nostalgic look on his face. Enjolras was still baffled.

“He wanted it signed,” he clarified, closing the programme. Enjolras spluttered.

“What on earth did he ask me for?!” He followed R back across the room. Aire set the programme down on top of one of the boxes while he continued his selection process. R sighed.

“He obviously thought you were the artist. You have to remember, not that many people know who R is. Some people have guessed. A lot of people guess wrong. Even Cosette got asked for her autograph once.”

Enjolras frowned even more. How could anyone mistake him for an artist? He could barely hold a paint brush. Aire laughed at him.

“If you’re going to stare over my shoulder like that as I sift through these canvases, no wonder people think you’re him. It’s like you’re waiting for me to drop your darling works of art or something.” He straightened up.

“But the staff, surely they know…” he broke off. It had never really occurred to him just how private R was about his work, how much he had done to separate Aire from R. He had even gone back to using his full name.

“Some do, most don’t and I like it that way. They think I’m just one of JVJ’s guys, pandering to the whims of an eccentric. They treat me better that way, anyway. Some of the Congregavit can be proper fucking princesses when they’re setting up, flouncing around the place.” 

He checked that they were alone in the room before picking the programme back up. He fished a pen from his pocket before flipping open the cover and scribbling a message inside, signing his R with a flourish.

“It’s like Father Christmas,” he continued, putting his pen away. “Those in the know play along for the sake of those who still believe. I am the proverbial Christmas elf. I told that kid I would make sure R would sign his book and that it would be left at the front desk for him. That way the mystery continues.” He winked at Enjolras. 

Enjolras struggled to make sense of what Aire was telling him.

“So, for five years, you have been turning up to galleries under the guise of being a ‘behind-the-scenes’ guy, doing all the donkey work, selecting pieces for display and setting up. And no one has worked out that you’re him?”

Aire shrugged, turning back to his work.

“Yet, I’m here two minutes and already they’re asking me to sign stuff.” He shook his head, closing his eyes in frustration.

“Look, no one expects me to be the artist. You look the part. No one imagines someone like me could make pieces like this.” He held up a particularly beautiful piece depicting a sepulchre set in a forest, evidently inspired by his recent trip to Highgate.

“But that’s so wrong. Doesn’t that bother you?” Enjolras persevered, reaching forward to touch Aire’s arm. The man shrugged.

“Not especially.”

+

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” R shuffled into a coat, despite the warm May sunshine. Enjolras pulled a face.

“It can’t be any worse than the London Dungeon,” he said, folding his arms matter-of-factly. R grinned at him.

“If you say so.”

They had been in Paris for three days. R had mostly spent his time at the Centre Pompidou, working with the staff to set up his display. Enjolras had decided not to return after that first day, instead choosing to stay in the apartment so he could unpack, organise and arrange their things. He had also explored the immediate vicinity, sourcing the nearest épicerie and boucherie. He found a smile and a cheerful “bonjour” went a long way when dealing with the local shop keepers. He tried to remember his GCSE French and they seemed to appreciate his efforts.

But now R was taking a well-deserved evening off. He was doing something he had always wanted to do, even though Enjolras didn’t fully appreciate the attraction. He was going to visit the Catacombs.

It had been arranged that he could visit with a guide after hours and would be permitted to take his camera in to get some decent photographs to work from at a later date.

Half an hour on the Metro found them at the Place Denfert-Rochareau. The underground ossuary had been open to the public for exploration since the late 18th century and one man had even gotten lost and died within its winding darkness.

One hundred and thirty steps down a spiral stone staircase led them into the underbelly of Paris. These winding corridors were formally mines, transformed into a house of the dead after the emptying of Saints Innocents cemetery. They were met at the entrance to the catacombs by a sign that stated “Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort “

“Stop. Here lies the Empire of Death,” Aire translated, a strange, ethereal look on his face. They moved down a narrow tunnel, the floor slippery underfoot. Enjolras was glad of his torch and of the guide.

From here on in the walls of the caverns were covered in carefully arranged bones and skulls. There was a strange poetry about their arrangement, an underlying elegance to their deliberate placement. The guide advised them that there were six million people arranged down here. Enjolras shivered, glad for his coat. Aire snapped picture after picture, not just of the walls but the ceilings and the floor, trying to capture the very soul of this soulless space.

The spaces got tighter and Enjolras began to appreciate that, while he wasn’t claustrophobic, it was very tight down here. He felt as though he had been in the earth for ages. He thought of the city, rumbling above him, of the warm reassuring heat. He turned to R who raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“All right, there, Orpheus?” he murmured. Enjolras nodded.

“You?” Aire grinned back at him. He was in his element.

As they moved further in, they found some of the bones had been arranged into patterns. One wall was formed into a heart shape, a sad image of death. It was fascinating, almost impossible to look away.

Enjolras was surprised by the graffiti; who would vandalise the dead?

“It dates back to the 18th century,” the guide advised him, seeing his disgusted look. Enjolras briefly wondered if the person who had defaced the ossuary had ended up here too. He jumped slightly as R appeared by his elbow, reciting something softly under his breath.

_“Whoso thou be that passeth by;_  
 _Where these corps entombed lie:_  
 _Understand what I shall say,_  
 _As at this time speak I may._  
 _Such as thou art, sometime was I,_  
 _Such as I am, such shalt thou be.”_

“The Black Prince,” Enjolras recognised the verse, nodding solemnly in the half light. Aire squeezed his shoulder.

“Come on, time to return to the land of the living.”

As they headed back to the surface, Enjolras felt himself relax. He took a big gulp of fresh air, observing the world around him with new eyes. 

+

“Another night, another tuxedo,” R sighed, navigating his bow tie into some semblance of order. Enjolras loved R like this. He loved the sensation of the expensive material beneath his fingertips, the way the shirt clung to his shoulders and tapered his waist. He loved the incongruous contradiction of Aire in a smart suit.

It was the night of the grand opening; something Aire had wryly described as a “glittering assembly”. Nearly all the members of the Congregavit would be there. Even Cosette had flown in from New York to be present.

Aire had tried to explain about the Congregavit, “the gathered”, to Enjolras. Although it sounded like some weird masonic cult, it was more a loose group of people whose only connection to each other was JVJ. At some point they had caught the man’s attention and in return he bestowed his attentions upon them.

The artists found their work promoted, displayed and sold. The writers found themselves published while the playwrights had their plays performed all over the world. There were musicians as well and a guild of actors. It was a big organisation. Aire tugged a hand through his hair.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to such a big event though. I’ve been to two or three where it’s just the artists. There are about thirty of us,” he spoke quickly and nervously, his eyes darting all over the room. Enjolras reached up to press a reassuring hand to his cheek, to guide those darting brown eyes back to his own.

The taxi arrived and they made their way out into the cool air of the May evening. They didn’t have far to travel; the event was being held in a hotel on the Champs-Élysées.

By chance, Enjolras was the first to step out of the car onto the red carpet, the sudden flash of cameras taking him by surprise. He offered a hand to R to help him from the taxi before they both made their way steadily to the entrance of the hotel.

Aire gave his full, anonymous and unknown name to the maitre-d’ who welcomed them with a small bow, guiding them into the atrium.

It was already full of people, a general buzz of pleasant chatter. Enjolras’s eyes widened.

In his younger days he had been dragged to evening events by his father who was eager to show off his talented and attractive son to his work colleagues. He felt his chest tighten as his memory instantly transported him back to those days, his eyes skirting round the room.

He was somewhat comforted by the mix of people around him. His ear caught the mesh of various different languages, while his eyes were met by different genders and cultures. The initial knot in his chest relaxed. This was a room of people who were all completely different. It was as Aire had said; the only thing they had in common was JVJ. 

“I must be drunker than I thought!” A loud voice with an irish lilt boomed behind them. He spun round to see a man seize R by the shoulders and pull him in for a hug. Enjolras watched coldly as the two men shouted familial greetings to each other, trading friendly punches and old jokes. He coughed politely. Aire instantly turned round, his face full of apologies.

“Enjolras, this is Murtagh Breen, an old drinking buddy and sometime playwright.” Breen held out a jovial hand which Enjolras accepted for R’s sake. He vaguely recognised the man before him from one of the photos he had seen in R’s room back in London.

Aire turned back to his old friend to interrogate him, enquiring where the man had been hiding himself recently. They were soon lost in memories and recollections. From the small amount that Enjolras understood, it appeared they had both met in Bucharest two years ago while Breen was out there doing some research. His accent was thick and not helped by the amount of alcohol he had obviously consumed. Enjolras’s attention wondered, his eyes skittering over the throng of strangers in the room. He spotted a flash of silver in the crowd and turned back to his boyfriend, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he said. Aire nodded at him, smiling happily, before turning back to his old friend. Enjolras sighed and walked away.

Cosette was standing by the bar in a long, silver dress, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders. She spotted Enjolras making his way towards her and beamed at him, pulling him into a hug as soon as he was close enough.

“Where’s Grantaire?” she enquired, careful to use his proper name. Enjolras rolled his eyes and gestured over to where R and Breen were still babbling nonsense to each other. Cosette rubbed his arm sympathetically.

“Ah yes, they’re old friends. And far too like each other than is healthy for either of them.” She took a sip of her champagne. “Still, not too much damage can be done in one night.”

She smiled, then, looking over Enjolras’s shoulder. He turned and started at the sight of Eponine.

Eponine was wearing a full three piece pinstripe suit. Her hair had been cut viciously short in the four days since he had last seen her. It contrasted sharply with her cheek and jaw bones. Cosette passed her a glass of champagne. Over Eponine’s shoulder, Enjolras raised an eyebrow at her. Cosette returned his look by sticking out her tongue, an act that made both Eponine and Enjolras burst out laughing. 

He relaxed as they were called through to dinner. He was pleased to find that they were seated on a table with Eponine and Cosette. He was even happier to discover that Murtagh Breen was placed several tables away. However, any irritation he felt evaporated when he turned to look at Aire. The man before him was flushed, his eyes bright but pinpoint focused.

“Having a good time?” Aire asked him, his voice soft. Enjolras felt his face relax into a beaming smile, for how could he not smile at Aire, especially when he looked at him that way. He nodded and felt the truth of his expression.

His mind skittered nearly three hundred miles northwest of where he was now. He thought of travelling home on the tube, the inevitable rain, his lonely flat and the meal for one that he would no doubt be constructing if he wasn’t right here right now; if R hadn’t come back into his life.

He leaned forward to press a kiss to Aire’s cheek.

“I’m having the best time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guy who approached Enjolras asked him to sign the programme. He told R that he knew it was supposed to be a secret but he really hoped the artist would be kind enough to sign anyway.
> 
> The Catacombs are really quite something. There is always a massive queue so if you do ever find yourself in Paris I strongly recommend booking a tour so you can jump the queue.
> 
> The quote that R recites is supposed to come from the tomb of the Black Prince (1330-1376) and is quite popular as an epitaph.
> 
> Chapter title is from the brick.
> 
> I don't know why, this chapter was really hard work I hope it flows ok. I think it is because I know there's going to be a lot of fun in the next chapter ;-p


	3. You Belong To Me And All Paris Belongs To Me And I Belong To This Notebook And This Pencil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The days of the week had all folded together after a while. There didn’t seem to be much difference between Saturday and Wednesday. R was always out, always busy, always working. It had come as something of a shock to Enjolras. He was so used to being the one who worked long, antisocial hours. Now he was the one at home while R went to studios or lectures or to the gallery. There was always something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw cemeteries

_Hey guys!_   
_Bahorel – I picked this one just for you! Wish you were here ~ R x_

It was the sound of Aire’s voice that brought Enjolras back to consciousness. He cracked open an eye, glancing suspiciously round the bedroom, wondering who Aire could be talking to. From the living room, he could hear him barking with laughter.

The days of the week had all folded together after a while. There didn’t seem to be much difference between Saturday and Wednesday. R was always out, always busy, always working. It had come as something of a shock to Enjolras. He was so used to being the one who worked long, antisocial hours. Now he was the one at home while R went to studios or lectures or to the gallery. There was always something.

He invited Enjolras to everything, trying to share this with him. The opening event had been a great success. There had been plenty of speeches on a variety of subjects; music, art and theatre. Enjolras had been introduced to a ridiculous number of people and he had promptly forgotten all of their names. 

A small number of people had greeted R in the same manner as Murtagh Breen, smiling and winking, pronouncing his name with a giggle, enjoying the joke. Many other people looked right through him, making a bee-line for Enjolras, anxious to know how he fitted into the JVJ empire. Enjolras was an expert at keeping his embarrassment hidden but he was embarrassed nonetheless. Just once, he would have liked one person who didn’t already know the man on his arm to ask Aire what he did, how he was ‘part of the empire’. No one did.

When they had gone to the unveiling at the Centre Pompidou it was the same; Enjolras faced an onslaught of questions from curious journalists and critics, while Aire was easily able to move about the room, making notes for adjustments without anyone seeming to know he was there, but then R had always been the master at disappearing into a crowd.

Four days ago, a particularly persistent journalist had cornered him after a lecture titled “The Impossibility of the Empty” which had referenced a number of R’s _Pripyat_ collection.  
He had tried desperately to get Enjolras to admit that he was R, that he had finally grown tired of his anonymity and that he was planning to announce the truth any day now. If he agreed to do that exclusively to that particular journalist he would be handsomely paid.

Somehow Enjolras had managed to escape from his clutches without losing his temper, although a highly unflattering piece had appeared in a British tabloid the following day, asking various unsavoury questions about the state of R’s mental health. It was at that point that Enjolras started to let R attend these events on his own.

Today must have been Sunday because everything was closed on a Sunday and it was the only logical explanation for R to still be in the apartment. He grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and shuffled his way into the living room.

R was on the sofa, chuckling at his laptop. On spotting Enjolras emerging from the bedroom, he waved his hand in a salute.

“Hey guys, guess who’s awake?”

There was a fuzzy noise of shouting and laughing as well as a chorus of “Hi Enjolras” from the crackly speakers of the laptop. The sound of his friend’s voices warmed his heart, tugging it back towards London. He dropped down on the sofa next to R, grinning stupidly at his friends who were crowding the screen.

“And what terribly attractive bed hair,” Courf commented, while Jehan shoved him playfully. It looked as though they were in their living room. Combeferre was there, too, rolling his eyes at the two men next to him.

R got up, waving his mug questioningly. Enjolras nodded enthusiastically before turning his attentions back to the laptop.

“How’s it going?” he enquired. Courf replied first, of course, despite Jehan elbowing him, scolding him to give the others a turn. Enjolras looked over to Ferre who smiled back. Apparently they could communicate silently, even over Skype.

“You guys are certainly causing some waves over there,” Jehan eventually managed to speak. “The papers are full of the Big Event taking place on mainland Europe. There are all sorts of rumours that it might come here, but there’s some difficulties getting the location they want.”

Enjolras knew all about it, of course. He had heard enough from Cosette and Eponine. Cosette was still working on the negotiations because they wanted the Tate Modern but things were not going smoothly. However, the initial success of the Paris convention was definitely something to work in their favour.

Combeferre cleared his throat.

“You, personally, appear to have caused a lot of interest,” he said, his eyes twinkling but also with a question, an underlying concern. Enjolras felt his face falter. He wasn’t even in the Congregavit, why on earth were they writing about him?

“R’s works have grabbed a lot of attention. His absence had been noted and now people have realised he was in London all that time, thanks to his recent works. At the sudden appearance of a ‘young, attractive man with a British accent’ at the Congregavit galas, there’s a lot of speculation as to your identity.”

He knew Combeferre intended it as a warning but it was one he didn’t need. He already knew what people were saying about him. He also understood why Aire shied away from it. The media were like a pack of dogs with the scent of blood.

“You’re not still moaning about being asked for your autograph!” R was back, placing a mug of coffee down on the coaster next to Enjolras. He grinned at the man next to him before turning back to the screen.

“Anyway, guys, what was it you wanted to ask about? Seeing as we’re all here now…” He looked at them expectantly.

Jehan clapped his hands together, his eyes lighting up with delight.

“It was Combeferre’s idea really,” he said, bouncing up and down in his seat. “You know how it’s half term next week?”

Enjolras liked the sound of this. He liked the sound of this a lot.

+

The following week found Aire and Enjolras standing awkwardly at the Gare du Nord, trying to spot their friends through the hordes of people coming and going. Eventually Aire spotted Combeferre who appeared to be marching by himself, a sensible suitcase in tow. His usually calm exterior was showing signs of wear. In fact, he looked like someone who had just been forced to spend the last two hours on a train with Courfeyrac and Jehan. Aire felt rather sorry for him.

A few moments later, Jehan and Courfeyrac came, hand in hand looking rather dishevelled. Jehan was flushed and giggling while Courf was unashamedly grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh you didn’t!” Enjolras spoke first, looking appalled. Combeferre frowned at the pair of them over his glasses.

“I’m afraid to say they did.” He turned to them both. “You can sit on your own on the way home.” Aire and Enjolras exchanged a look before they turned to greet their friends properly.

Enjolras and Combeferre paired off, taking the lead towards the Metro station, while Jehan wrapped himself around R, Courf slapping him on the back jovially.

They chatted pleasantly all the way back to the apartment. Courf and Jehan were in the spare room, while Ferre was content to occupy the sofa. It would be a squeeze but it was only for a few days.

“What does everyone want to do, anyway?” Enjolras enquired after he had sorted everyone out with a drink.

Jehan produced a list from his pocket of things he wanted to see while he was here. Aire plucked it from his fingers, glancing down the extensive list, chuckling.

“You couldn’t have picked things that were any further away from each other could you?” he laughed, passing the list back to his blushing friend.

“Well obviously we’d like to see your exhibit,” Combeferre started, “and I think Jehan might actually combust if we don’t take him to Disney.” Jehan almost growled in agreement.

“There are some places we can show you, too,” Enjolras interjected, looking up at R who nodded in agreement.

“I know all the best places,” R winked. It was going to be an excellent couple of days.

+

Jehan and Combeferre enjoyed the Centre Pompidou a lot more than Courf who wasn’t all that in to art. Once they had “ooh’d” and “aah’d” over R’s work, he did his very best to concentrate and try to appreciate the other works on display. Enjolras took pity on him as Jehan ran off with a delighted squeal towards the Henri Matisse exhibit and led the man down to the café and gift shop.

“How’s it working out, the travelling?” Combeferre enquired, falling into step next to R. Aire smiled down at the floor.

“It’s good, I think. It was a bit rocky to start as I’m sure Enjolras told you, but we seem to be doing ok. Touch wood!” He reached up to pat himself on the head. Combeferre smiled.

“I just hope he doesn’t get bored.” This was a real fear of R’s. They were going to be away from home for a long time. They had been gone for five weeks at this point and already Enjolras had stopped going with him to things, choosing to stay at the apartment or go exploring in the city on his own. He absolutely dreaded coming home to Enjolras packing his bags, announcing that he’d had enough and was returning home, leaving R to continue without him. Combeferre shook his head.

“Enjolras wouldn’t do that. And he certainly won’t let himself get bored. Even if that situation did arise, I’m sure he’d find something to do,” he reassured him. R twisted his mouth in uncertainty.

In truth, he was very worried about Enjolras. He knew the man was unhappy about the attention he received whenever they attended an official function, even though Aire wasn’t that surprised by it at all. It was as though Enjolras had never looked in a mirror.

“’I’ll talk to him this afternoon, if you like,” Combeferre offered. Aire thanked him, gratefully.

+

On their way to Notre Dame, Aire suddenly clicked his fingers and grabbed Jehan’s hand, pulling him off in a certain direction.

“You are going to love this so much,” he chuckled excitedly. He stopped outside a shop window and looked expectantly at his friend for his reaction. He was not disappointed.

Initially, Jehan didn’t say anything; his eyes just got wider and wider as he took in the shop window display before him. Eventually the others caught up with them.

“Is that..?” Courf began to ask, just as Jehan seized his hand, whilst turning to look with big eyes at a grinning R.

“The Ratatouille shop! It is, isn’t it?” He turned back to look at the rats hanging in the window under the impressive sign proclaiming “DESTRUCTION DES ANIMAUX NUISIBLES”. 

“Those rats have been there since 1925,” Enjolras pulled a face, wrinkling his nose as R shared this piece of information but Jehan was obviously thrilled. After a moment they moved on, making their way towards the river.

They strolled past Notre Dame, squeezing their way through the groups of tourists, stopping briefly to point out the Zero Kilometre before crossing the bridge.

Shakespeare & Co stood on the opposite bank, another item on Jehan’s list. As he gazed up at the books that filled every nook and cranny, pressing his hands together with a sigh, it was clear he had found his own paradise. He moved off into the depths of the store and Enjolras smiled as he heard Jehan mutter to himself, catching the words “Ginsberg” and “Burroughs” whispered with reverence.

R stayed outside, smoking, leaving the others to it. He had been in there quite a few times and it was quite crowded enough without him. He was surprised when Enjolras came to join him.

The two sat on the benches outside the shop, side by side. Enjolras automatically reached forward to take his boyfriend’s hand, lacing their fingers together. They sat in a comfortable silence as the rest of the city grumbled around them.

Eventually Combeferre joined them, having procured a book which he removed from the paper bag and began to read immediately. Then came Courfeyrac, almost carrying Jehan along with him. As they walked away he kept looking back mournfully behind him.

The group split up. Courf, Jehan and R headed off with a cheerful wave towards the RER station in search of the fabled Académie De La Bière, while Enjolras and Combeferre chose to return to the apartment.

When they were settled on the sofa, Combeferre gave his friend an appraising look.

“Grantaire seems to think you’re about to pack your bags and go home.” He offered as an opening to the conversation. Enjolras frowned, then sighed, setting his tea down on the table.

“He’s being paranoid. I’m having a great time.” Combeferre didn’t look at all convinced, choosing to stay silent while he stirred the spoon in his tea before setting it aside.

Enjolras took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together. He was really and truly enjoying himself but it hadn’t been at all what he had expected. He had thought that the two of them would have more time together to explore the places they were visiting. Their time in Budapest had passed in a flash and most of the sight-seeing had been done by Enjolras on his own. Similarly, today had been the first time that he and Aire had ventured out into Paris together to do something that wasn’t JVJ related. Even the catacomb tour had been for work.

“I suppose the upside is we don’t really argue that much. He’s never really here to argue with,” he mused. Ferre cocked his head to one side, concern filling his eyes. Enjolras reached out to squeeze his arm.

“That came out badly. Really, it is going unexpectedly well. Maybe that’s the problem. We are both waiting for it to go to hell,” he tried to smile but it was fragile.

“I’d like to go somewhere more anonymous. It’s freaky being so… out in the open.” He was surprised when Ferre smiled at him.

“You’re starting to sound like him. Isn’t the whole point of this R/Aire charade to maintain his privacy?” Enjolras’s face clouded with displeasure at the mention of it. He told his friend about the incident at the Centre Pompidou and about all the people at the opening gala night.

“How can they just look right through him like that?” he struck out viciously at an innocent cushion with frustration. “And, worst of all, he doesn’t even seem to care.”

“Then neither should you,” Combeferre interjected, wisely. “Honestly, Enjolras, I know it bothers you when people don’t see R the way you do but you’ve had quite the head start on the rest of us. If he isn’t bothered then you shouldn’t be either.”

Combeferre could tell he had won by the slightly less pronounced pout. Enjolras sat back against the sofa.

“And please talk to him. Tell him what it is that’s bothering you, so that he doesn’t have to fill in the gaps himself.”

+

Enjolras wasn’t at all impressed when the other three returned to the apartment very much the worse for wear. They ended up staying in the apartment that night as neither Jehan nor Courfeyrac were in any fit state to visit a restaurant. Aire tried to appear penitent but Enjolras threw a tea towel at him, knowing full well the man was far from sorry about having had his drinking buddies back for the afternoon.

+

“Disney with a hangover, surely there are laws against this sort of thing.” Courfeyrac grumbled before knocking back some painkillers. Enjolras scowled at him, passing the pack to a contrite Jehan. He had no sympathy for either of them.

R was studying the guide map intently, looking at his watch.

“How fussed are people about parades?” Jehan let out an indignant noise, snatching the guide away from R who relinquished it without protest, backing away.

They decided to start at the Phantom Manor, despite Enjolras’s grumbling that it seemed like all they ever did was visit haunted things. Courf then dragged them onto Big Thunder Mountain. Enjolras had his arse kicked by R on the Buzz Lightyear Laser Blast, while Jehan and Courf went and got themselves lost in Alice’s Curious Labyrinth.

Combeferre and Enjolras went on Peter Pan’s Flight together while the others chose to go on Pirates of the Caribbean.

Combeferre, much to everyone’s surprise, outright refused to go on It’s A Small World. Even Enjolras had agreed to go on it, but then Ferre hadn’t had a whiney boyfriend begging him on his knees in the middle of Main Street.

When they emerged, Courf and Jehan still singing triumphantly, R headed straight to one of the gift shops, grabbing a postcard of the It’s A Small World representation of Tower Bridge. Grabbing the pen holding up Jehan’s bun, he scribbled a note to Bahorel and Feuilly before posting it in one of the special Disney letterboxes.

After lunch, ignoring everyone’s warnings, Courf decided to go on the Rock n Rollercoaster three times in a row. Nobody was surprised when he disappeared to find the bathrooms having turned a nasty shade of green. Leaving him in Jehan’s care, Enjolras, Ferre and R queued up to ride Star Tours. Enjolras found himself blushing as R told Ferre about the little speech he had been given when Enjolras first played him A New Hope. Combeferre rocked with laughter; apparently he had received the same speech himself.

Having made sure that everyone had gone on the rides they wanted, they spent a good forty minutes in the gift shop, making purchases. Enjolras eyed the large number of bags Jehan and Courf had managed to accrue, wondering how they planned to squeeze it all into the suitcase they shared between them.

Neither Ferre nor Enjolras were particularly surprised when the other three fell asleep on the train back to the apartment. Combeferre smiled benevolently at Enjolras who had been talked into wearing an Aristocats headband. R was snoring softly against his shoulder, his Mickey Mouse Wizard hat skewed to one side.

“That’s one way to get the kids to sleep, I suppose,” he murmured softly. Enjolras returned his smile.

+

“I still don’t understand why you need a rose,” Enjolras muttered as they exited the fleuriste and made their way down the street. Jehan shot him a lofty look, before taking Courf’s hand.

It was their friends’ last morning in Paris and Jehan had begged and pleaded to go to Père Lachaise cemetery. Enjolras wasn’t overly enamoured with the idea, having not yet managed to drive away the uneasy memories of the catacombs, but the alternative was to stay at home by himself.

R proved an excellent tour guide, having visited the cemetery on a number of different occasions in the past. He and Combeferre led the way, chatting together about the various famous occupants interred at the cemetery, Jehan and Courf following behind while Enjolras brought up the rear. He chewed his lip petulantly, surprised at the annoyance he felt at his boyfriend and best friend seemingly ganging up on him.

“Which one did you want to do first?” Aire turned to ask Jehan who paused to consider.

“Edith Piaf,” he finally decided. Aire nodded and changed direction. After about five minutes, he turned off the main path and made his way through a number of graves to a grey marble tomb, bedecked with a crucifix. Jehan approached, resting the single rose across the top of the grave. He stood for a moment, lost in thought.

Finally he turned, with a jerk of his head and they all moved off, heading up the hill, once again following R’s lead.

The tomb of Oscar Wilde was easily recognisable with its winged messenger. As they approached, Jehan drew a lipstick from his bag which he applied deftly before stepping smartly up to the tomb. He pressed his lips against the stonework, mimicking many other pilgrims before him, as evidenced by the sheer number of marks covering the tomb. Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure he approved of what could only be described as vandalism, and evidently his face reflected this because Combeferre found cause to elbow him in the ribs before telling him to cheer up.

Jehan pronounced himself satisfied and the group made their way back through the cemetery. R took them on a roundabout route that took them past the graves of Chopin, Bizet and Jim Morrison. Eventually they exited the cemetery gates back on the streets of Paris.

A rough hand navigated its way into Enjolras’s palm, disturbing his train of thought. He looked up to see R watching him with concern.

“You ok?” he asked softly. Enjolras attempted to smile, nodding to try and convince both of them. He clung tightly to the warmth of R’s hand in his.

It was a sombre trip to the Gare du Nord to bid goodbye to their friends. Enjolras attempted to smile and wave cheerfully as the others made their way through to passport control but he was sorry to see them go. He knew the apartment would be quiet without them.

That evening he was surprised when R appeared beside him, holding out his coat.

“Come on; let’s go out, you and me.”

“Don’t you have any work to do?” he asked, shocked. R hadn’t done any work for days. He was certain the man would need to get started immediately if he had any hope of catching up before they had to leave at the end of next week. R smiled down at him.

“Tonight I’m all yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Ernest Hemingway who, incidentally, used to frequent the original Shakespeare and Company.
> 
> May I strongly recommend the Academy of Beer. They have an actual menu of beers from around the world, each with their own glass. If you appreciate ale and proper beer you will love it.
> 
> The Ratatouille shop really exists, it is about 5 minutes away from Notre Dame.   
> I know lots of people go on about Shakespeare and Co but it really is the most amazing place.


	4. Berlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“What are you doing?” he asked, pressing his lips together in a puzzled line. He had been watching R for the past ten minutes who, in turn, was watching his fellow passengers, making quick notes on a napkin. They were sitting in the waiting room at the Gare de l’Est waiting to board the overnight train to Berlin. 
> 
> “I’m trying to work out which one is Mr Ratchett,” he answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world."
> 
> The boys are off to Berlin.

_Guys! We’ve been in Berlin for a whole two days and no one has said “PAPIEREN BITTE” or wished me “good luck” – I am most disappointed!_

 

Enjolras couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What are you doing?” he asked, pressing his lips together in a puzzled line. He had been watching R for the past ten minutes who, in turn, was watching his fellow passengers, making quick notes on a napkin. They were sitting in the waiting room at the Gare de l’Est waiting to board the overnight train to Berlin. 

“I’m trying to work out which one is Mr Ratchett,” he answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Seeing Enjolras’s nonplussed expression he grinned. “You know, the guy who is going to be murdered?” Enjolras coughed, choking slightly on his tea. He cast a nervous glance around the waiting room. Aire chuckled at his expression.

“Honestly, Enjolras, have you never read ‘Murder on the Orient Express’?”

Before Enjolras could answer that, they were called forward for boarding which was probably just as well. It had been a very long day and the last thing Enjolras wanted was to be pulled into a hypothetical discussion on which of their fellow passengers would potentially be murdered over the next twelve hours. He told R as much as they climbed aboard, earning himself a very alarmed stare from the steward who greeted them.

Eponine had booked them a Deluxe Double sleeping car compartment which certainly sounded impressive. There was a private en suite bathroom as well as a table and chairs. The brochure had also promised a large panoramic window, however considering most of their train journey would be spent asleep, Enjolras failed to see how this would be in any way relevant.

The compartment was undeniably comfortable, though, especially considering they were on a train. R claimed the top bunk, leaping onto it shouting “bagsy” at the top of his lungs. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile at his childish behaviour.

The last week or so had been very hard work. He had hardly seen R as the event at the Centre Pompidou wound to a close. While Aire had been packing up the exhibit, Enjolras had been packing up the apartment. They had been there for six weeks and yet they had managed to scatter their possessions far and wide.

A holiday apartment had been let for them in West Berlin for the three week stay. Enjolras would have preferred to fly there but R had begged and pleaded to take the overnight train and who was Enjolras to refuse Aire anything? At least it meant twelve hours together undisturbed.

He lay back on his bunk, staring up into space, into nothingness, his mind wondering. Suddenly Aire appeared, hanging upside down from the top bunk.

“You ok?” he asked softly. Enjolras managed to work his face into a tired smile. In truth, he was exhausted. Aire disappeared, his head swiftly replaced by his legs as he swung himself down. He crouched down and shuffled onto the cabin bed, forcing Enjolras to make room for him in the tight space. Enjolras welcomed him, closing his eyes to enjoy the reassuring warmth and weight of Aire lying half on top of him, his head on his chest.

“I’m sorry it has been so hectic,” Aire mumbled into Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras flexed his fingers, tightening his grip on Aire’s shirt, but said nothing.

“This should be better. Berlin is a smaller exhibit. I should be around more.” 

Enjolras knew he shouldn’t mind as much as he did about R working so much. Truthfully, it was a delight to see him in his natural habitat, to witness how much joy his work gave to other people. The Congregavit event in Paris had really opened his eyes. Aire had been like a different person, but that had been ok because he remained the same man he had always been. 

R shifted against him, his hand wandering downwards to press through Enjolras’s trousers. Enjolras bucked his hips, almost against his will.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to have sex on a train,” R whispered in his boyfriend’s ear. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“I’m not sure a luxury compartment bunk bed counts,” he replied, trying to keep his tone dry but not being entirely successful. He heard R chuckle and then the man was moving, settling on top of him. He leant down to brush a kiss against his boyfriend’s lips before savagely biting down, causing Enjolras to let out a small cry of surprise. Aire grinned down at him wickedly. He quickly pulled off his own shirt before removing Enjolras’s top with equal alacrity.

He shuffled down, slipping his hands underneath Enjolras’s waist and flipping him so he was lying on his front. He pulled Enjolras’s hips up into position. Enjolras grunted into the pillow, surprised but pleased by Aire’s enthusiasm. 

Strong fingers reached round and made quick work of the buttons at the front of his trousers, before they were swiftly jerked down. Enjolras tried to wriggle but R held him in place, delivering a quick swat to his behind.

“Patience, you,” he chuckled, fumbling with something in his pocket. Enjolras heard the familiar click and squelch of lube. He whined softly as a gentle finger pressed between his cheeks before entering him. A second finger followed. He thrust back upon it, moaning and whimpering for more.

“R please,” he whined, pressing his face into the pillow. He was rewarded by a third finger, pressing and stretching him.

Enjolras flexed his fingers against the sheets of the bunk as R finally pushed in. When Aire didn’t move he couldn’t prevent the whine that escaped his lips. 

“Please, fuck, just move, R, please,” he groaned, bucking his hips backwards, inviting R to start fucking him. Aire chuckled darkly.

Aire fucked him with long, deep thrusts. Enjolras was being unapologetically loud, trying to restrict the worst of it to the pillow, but he loved it like this. He loved feeling R above him, around him, in him. He loved the pressure of his hands holding him in place while he got properly fucked.

The compact space of the bunk added to the intimacy of it all. A sudden movement in the wrong direction and the pair of them would have been pitched unceremoniously onto the floor of the compartment.

Enjolras rutted his hips forward, seeking friction and release.

“Are we still in France? Or do you think we’re fucking in Germany yet?” Aire groaned from above him. Enjolras honestly didn’t care which country they were in as long as R didn’t stop.

“I love you so fucking much, you’re so fucking perfect,” R was growling now, building up speed. Enjolras could only whine and mewl below him. With a shudder he came against the mattress, his whole body going limp while Aire continued to fuck into him. It didn’t take long for him to follow, collapsing down on top of Enjolras, pressing hot, loving kisses to the back of his neck and shoulders.

“I love you,” he murmured, kissing the sweaty golden curls. Enjolras smiled into the pillow, reaching back to squeeze Aire’s hand. He grumbled as R gently climbed off him, going in search of a towel so they could clean up.

“If you don’t want to sleep in the damp patch, you can join me on the top bunk?” he winked suggestively when he returned. Enjolras rolled his eyes but there was no heat in his glare; he was far too fucked out for that.

+

“What are you doing?” Aire muttered sleepily. The glow of the laptop illuminated Enjolras’s face. He wasn’t quite sure what time it was but it was still dark. The train hummed softly, almost imperceptibly, beneath them.

“Blogging,” he answered simply, not looking up. R rubbed his eyes, groaning.

“Don’t feed the trolls, Enjolras,” he muttered, pulling the duvet up over his head. 

He blamed Jehan entirely for Enjolras’s new passion. It had been Jehan who had told Enjolras about the Rtist website along with the message board with its conspiracy theories and discussions.

Enjolras had read it obsessively, going through the whole site in a week, scribbling notes in a notebook. Aire had left him to it, glad that Enjolras had found something to spark his interest. But to actually crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to see what was taking place on the internet; that was bordering on the ridiculous.

In response to the website, and with Aire’s blessing, Enjolras had set up a counter blog called “I’m not the Rtist.” Enjolras argued that R should interact more with his audience, especially given how easy it was with the advent of multiple social media platforms. Aire had replied that Enjolras was more than welcome to do that on his behalf, if it made him happy, and so it had begun.

The first few entries had been quite stilted. Enjolras hadn’t really known what to say. He’d tried to keep it neutral, talking about the set up at the Centre Pompidou without going into too many details. He made it clear that he was writing as someone who knew R without it actually being R. He also tried not to give too many details away so that R’s identity wouldn’t inadvertently be revealed. This had proved quite difficult.

The turning point had come when he had started to scan and post small doodles that R produced during the day, when they watched television or while he was in cafés . Word began to spread. The number of hits and comments increased. Enjolras was thrilled.

At the end of last week Enjolras had posted an entry that ended with an open invitation for questions. First one, then another and then another question appeared in the inbox. The floodgates had opened.

“Aire, who’s the coolest person you’ve ever met?” R grunted, reappearing above the sheets of the bunk.

“In what context?” he asked, sleepily.

Enjolras swivelled the laptop monitor to show the original question. Some kid was asking him about any fellow non-Congregavit artists he had met that he thought were ‘particularly cool’. He smiled at the terminology.

“Er… in my first year I went to Los Angeles to a Blek le Rat exhibition. He chatted to me for a bit which was very ‘cool’. Also Art Spiegelman. I went to a convention in New York and the guy signed my In the Shadow of No Towers.” The rattle of the keyboard keys told him Enjolras was satisfied.

“Are you coming back to bed?” he enquired, cuddling up under the sheets. Enjolras didn’t respond. The train roared through the night, rocking R back to sleep. It arrived in Berlin at 9:01am precisely.

+

Berlin, in Enjolras’s opinion, was an atmospherically cold city in contrast to the heat that radiated from Paris. It took Enjolras quite a while to get used to the change in language. He had to remember to wish people a ‘guten tag’ rather than a ‘bon jour’ or ‘salut’ when he popped to the shops.

He shivered under the omnipresent eye of the Fernsehturm which was visible from pretty much wherever you happened to be in the city.

The apartment was pleasant enough, although it only had the one bedroom. For some reason, this put Enjolras on edge. He and Aire hadn’t had a row for a while. Certainly not one that had merited one of them needing the spare room, but having it had been like having a safety net.

R’s work was part of a small exhibit at the Kulturforum, just to the west of Potsdamer Platz. Enjolras agreed to accompany him on the first day to help set up. It was the usual routine. R got to work quietly, undisturbed, nobody paying him any particular attention.

To his relief, they weren’t there that long and R only had three pieces to set up. 

“Told you it would be better,” he said, sending him an encouraging smile that pierced Enjolras straight through the chest. 

In the afternoon, the explored the city together, starting with Check Point Charlie, a twenty minute walk away. Aire was amused by the massive cliché but it was worth visiting nonetheless. Both men were transported back to their History GCSE days when they had studied the Cold War.

The course of the former Berlin Wall and border was marked in the street with a line of cobblestones. A replica of the guard house stood nearby along with a copy of the infamous sign. Enjolras wasn’t entirely surprised when R bought a postcard to send to their friends back home.

“Wrong war,” he commented dryly when he saw what Aire had written.

“I know that!” he replied, shoving Enjolras playfully with his shoulder. “Cheer up, sunshine. You don’t look very happy,” He cast Enjolras a concerned glance. He tried to smile in return but he wasn’t really feeling it. Something about the city was bothering him. He couldn’t even pin point what it was which just made the whole thing worse.

They made their way along the walls of the Friedrichstraße and the Zimmerstraße, reading about the various escape attempts as well as the expansion of the checkpoint over the years. 

“It’s all so sad,” Enjolras murmured, clutching Aire’s hand as they read about the poor souls shot for trying to cross the border, often left to bleed to death in the street.

It was scary how recent it was. People tended to push things like that to the backs of their minds, relegating them to the past as though such travesties would never occur “these days”, forgetting that the reunification of Berlin had taken place in 1990.

They avoided the actors dressed as military policeman who were trapping tourists into having their photographs taken, as well as the tacky souvenir stands laden with fake military items and so-called ‘pieces’ of the wall.

As they moved off into the rest of the city, Enjolras looked up at all the buildings fascinated by the architecture of the place. It was a city of contradictions; simultaneously old and new, past and present. He could see in some of the older buildings various gaps; empty spaces that had very obviously contained something in the past that had now been removed. Something round. 

The modernity of the city sharply contrasted with the inevitable echoes of history that surrounded them. They passed the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church with its damaged spire surrounded by more modern buildings, a strange juxtaposition of the old and the new which reflected the duel identity of the city.

Somehow they found themselves at the site of the Führerbunker, marked only by an information board.

“And even that feels like too much,” Enjolras complained. Aire only nodded, dragging him away before he could start ranting.

As evening approached, they entered a quaint little bar where none of the floorboards or furniture matched. Aire returned to their table with two glasses of wheat beer.

“What do you think so far?” Aire asked, sipping his beer. Enjolras shrugged, unable to muster any further enthusiasm than that. Aire gave him a sympathetic smile, reaching across to squeeze his hand.

“Ah well, we won’t be here that long. At least you’ve seen plenty today for your blog.” Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“Oh, before I forget, we need to set an alarm for tomorrow.”

That was surprising. Usually R liked to sleep in on his days off. Enjolras raised his eyebrows.

“May I enquire why?” His question was met by a sardonic grin.

“I’ve booked us in on an alternative tour of Berlin. It promises to show us the 'underground sights and sounds of the world-famous street art and graffiti culture of Berlin, its haunts and hangouts, and the landmarks of rock, reggae, punk and electronic music'.”

“You sound like you swallowed the guide book,” Enjolras deadpanned but Aire’s grin only grew wider.

+

_Are you still in Paris? Any chance of a shot from the top of the Eiffel Tower?_  
Hello! No, I’m afraid R is no longer in Paris. Sorry. However, I have posted a sketch of the view that he did a few weeks ago. I hope that’s ok.

_Hi – love the blog! Can I ask, what is your favourite piece of R’s work?_  
I can’t tell you what my favourite piece is, there are so many. However I really like the new 'Stone and Sleep' set, especially _Medusa’s Glasses_.

(“Aire, what’s your favourite city?”   
“Fuck knows.”  
“That’s not helpful, Aire,”  
“You’re the blogger, you tell me.”)

_Hello, sorry you don’t appear to be enjoying Berlin. Have you heard of Zuckerfabrik Greußen? It strikes me as somewhere R would like to go._

(“Oh my gosh, Aire, look at this!”  
“What? Fuck me – that’s beautiful. Where is it?”  
“About 200miles southwest. I’ll email Eponine see if we can take a detour.”  
“How did you find it? Oh no don’t tell me… the blog.”)

Hello! Thank you for the suggestion – I’ll make sure it gets passed on.

_OH MY FUCKING GOD R went on one of my walking tours?!? Can I use that on my website? I don’t believe it – I had no idea!!! I’m going to torture myself now trying to guess who you were!!!_  
Hello there, please don’t torture yourself on our behalf! And thank you for what was an extremely interesting and valuable alternative tour of Berlin. Yes, of course you can quote that on your site.

("Back away from the laptop, Enjolras. You've been on it for three hours."  
"I'm just answering some questions. Wait a minute."  
"Are you done yet or do I have to fuck myself tonight?"  
"Fine, fine, I'm coming now."  
"I hope you don't mean that literally, or the laptop is going out das fucking fenster.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Berlin was hard work so huge and unreserved thanks go out to epeolatry for dragging me over the finish line - there's no way I'd have gotten to the end of this chapter without her!
> 
> The quotes on R's postcard home is from The Great Escape (poor old Gordon Jackson, not winning the war on this occasion)
> 
> Murder on the Orient Express, the book and the film, has changed the way I travel on trains for ever. Similarly, if I ever get to travel on a river boat down the Nile (and I hope to do that one day) I don't doubt that I will quote extensively from Agatha Christie, labelling all my fellow passengers with titles such as Madam Otterbone, Madamoiselle Jackie and, of course, Simon Doyle... but I digress.
> 
> Blek le Rat is a Parisan graffiti artist famous for his iconic stencils of rats. Sticking with the theme, Art Spiegelman is a graphic artist most well known for his Maus series about his father's experiences and involvement in the Holocaust. Both are worth looking up.
> 
> The Fernsehturm is like this huge telecommunications tower that is just *everywhere* there's no escape.
> 
> Obviously Berlin is a heavily scarred city considering its past. I would hope it would be obvious, but just in case - the empty round spaces I am referring to are where swastikas were removed after 1945. A lot of the Eagles of the Third Reich architecture remain.
> 
> Zuckerfabrik Greußen is an abandoned chocolate factory.
> 
> Finally, the tour they go on is a subculture free tour of berlin looking at the street art and graffiti culture in Berlin.
> 
> I think that's it - if anyone has any questions? :)


	5. Death In Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Enjolras was on the laptop, answering some queries on the blog. Operating on autopilot, he managed to successfully tune out Aire’s request to contact Eponine to arrange for a repeat prescription of all his medications to be ready and waiting for them when they got to Vienna.
> 
> Later, Enjolras wouldn’t even remember the conversation taking place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, HUGE BIG MASSIVE GREAT WAVING RED FLAG of a trigger warning for self harm. Also discussion of medication and pain.
> 
>  
> 
> Apologies for how long it has taken for me to update. I have been procrastinating elsewhere... but I am still very much working on this!

It started in Berlin.

The day before they were due to leave, Aire had not yet finished taking everything down at the gallery to be packed away and transported to the next place on the itinerary. On his way out of the door he called out to Enjolras.

Enjolras was on the laptop, answering some queries on the blog. Operating on autopilot, he managed to successfully tune out Aire’s request to contact Eponine to arrange for a repeat prescription of all his medications to be ready and waiting for them when they got to Vienna.

“Enjolras?”

“Yeah, definitely. No problem.”

Later, Enjolras wouldn’t even remember the conversation taking place.

\----

_Vienna_

“Enjolras?” Aire’s voice was very controlled, deliberately quiet. He didn’t want to start with shouting, if shouting could be avoided. The quiet of his tone attracted Enjolras’s attention. The man looked up, a cloud passing over his eyes as he took in Aire’s calm yet undeniably aggressive body language.

Aire had just spent the last ten minutes on Skype with Cosette who had brought something rather disturbing to his attention. A number of articles had appeared in various tabloids around the world regarding R’s work; more specifically, its political interpretations and intentions. Apparently the articles quoted extensively from inside sources to the artist himself.

Aire had just about blown a blood vessel. His work had no political leanings or intentions. His work came from inside. How people chose to interpret his work was neither here nor there but that someone should assert that he believed this or believed that or believed a specific ideology over another was just outrageous when he was famous for not believing in anything at all.

Then Cosette dropped the bombshell. Aire had expected as much but had hoped he had been wrong. The “source” was Enjolras’s blog.

That blog was becoming a serious bone of contention for Aire. At first he was pleased that Enjolras had a hobby, something to channel his energies into while R was off playing his artist part.

Enjolras had argued that R needed to interact more with his fan base; that everybody wanted to be able to touch their heroes and that by having a window like this it raised his profile.

Aire was fine with it as long as it didn’t impact on him directly, as long as Enjolras kept it generic and didn’t refer to anything too specifically that would directly prove or disprove his identity. He enjoyed his ambiguous and anonymous lifestyle and was anxious to keep it that way.

“Did you politicise my work?”

Enjolras’s eyes widened a little at the question but didn’t offer an answer immediately.

“Did you or did you not write a whole essay on the political intentions behind my Pripyat collection? It’s a simple enough question, Enjolras, requiring only one of two answers, a yes or a no.”

Enjolras stuck out his chin, defiantly. It wasn’t a secret and he wasn’t ashamed of it.

“Take it down. Or edit it to making it pretty fucking clear that it has nothing to do with me.” He turned to walk out of the room, but a tut from behind him had him whirling on his heel, all attempts to control his temper flying out of the window.

“My work is not political. At all.” He emphasised the last two words particularly harshly. “And how dare you try and interpret it as such. Yes I’ve heard of ‘Death of the Author’. Yes I’m aware that art can be interpreted in any way the audience sees fit. But not you. You know me. You know damn well there is nothing political about it.” He turned again, meaning to really leave this time.

“Creating pieces using images such as the Chernobyl disaster can’t possibly be seen in a neutral light –” Enjolras moved to follow him out of the room.

“Fucking STOP!” Aire shouted, slicing the air with both arms. Enjolras flinched. “It’s my fucking work and if I say there’s nothing political about it then there’s nothing political about it. If you want to pretend that it’s some big statement against the Cold War and the West then knock yourself out but don’t do it with my name.” He slammed out of the room and this time Enjolras let him go.

Aire ended up in the bathroom, gripping the sink with his hands, thoughts rolling round his head at one hundred miles an hour.

He was fine. It would be fine. It was bound to happen sooner or later. They hadn’t had a big row since Budapest. They needed an argument every so often just to clear to air.

He lifted his right hand slowly, observing it critically. It was shaking slightly. 

He had last taken his Valproate three days ago. In a week he would be out of Amitriptyline which helped control the misfiring nerves in his side. The idea of that pain coming back terrified him.

For the first time it occurred to him that Enjolras hadn’t ordered the repeat prescription. But no, Enjolras wouldn’t do that to him. That was just paranoia, the fear of coming off his meds talking. If there was one thing he believed in, it was Enjolras and if he said he was going to contact Eponine to reorder his meds then R had every faith in him. There was probably just a delay. Sometimes it was difficult to arrange these things and doctors took forever to sign stuff.

It would be fine. 

\---

_Rome_

Aire lay shivering in bed, staring at the window which was open, giving him a perfect view of the night sky. 

Rome was an old city but the architecture, the arbitrary mixture of Rennaissance and Ancient Roman buildings, the beauty of it all left Aire empty.

_Enjolras hates me. He must hate me. He doesn’t even bother to share our bed anymore. He doesn’t come to the galleries except when I ask him to and I don’t like to ask him because I don’t want him to feel obligated and all he does is play on that damned laptop. I’d hate me too if I made me quit my really important job just to drag me pointlessly around Europe. He should just go home. He’d be happier._

He failed to observe Enjolras watching him from the door.

Enjolras was worried out of his mind. Aire hadn’t been himself for a while. They were only in Rome for a few days before they were due to travel on to Venice, something that he was absolutely dreading. He knew how Aire felt about Venice. He, along with most of Vienna, had heard the shouting match he’d had with Cosette when she’d told him where they were going next.

Aire hadn’t been sleeping properly. He was restless and prone to thrashing about. Enjolras thought it might be better if he slept in the spare room; that maybe it would give Aire some peace sleeping alone, but the dark shadows around his eyes remained.

Judging by some of the empty bottles he had found hidden in the kitchen, Aire was drinking at night, perhaps in an attempt to get himself to sleep. The discovery of these empty bottles stashed behind the bin had scared him more than anything else. Why would Aire be drinking so much? Why was he furtively hiding it? And how the hell did Enjolras bring it up without starting another fight?

Because that was all they seemed to do these days. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d managed to complete a full day without some sort of argument. It broke his heart to see Aire like this.

Maybe it would be better, after Venice. Maybe they could organise a weekend home to London. Cosette had said there would be opportunities for trips home. Maybe that’s what they needed.

“I love you,” he whispered to the huddled form on the bed. Aire made no movement or indication of having heard him.

\---

_Venice_

Aire lay on the bed of their little apartment in Venice, trying to breathe through the pain. The stabbing and burning sensations in his side were almost too much to bear. He rolled over, biting his pillow, begging for it to stop.

He hated Venice. Words could not describe his absolute loathing for the city. He hated the smell, he hated the cliché little gondolas taking tourists up at down the Grand Canal. He hated the shops selling tacky knock-off Murano glass.

Enjolras seemed to love it. He had left early this morning with the intention of going to St Mark’s Square and the Doge’s Palace. He had tried to encourage Aire to accompany him, saying it would be fun, that it would be nice to do something together, that maybe Aire would see the city differently with Enjolras with him. He had swiftly backed off as the volume of their discussion began to rise and had at last left the apartment without him.

He crawled off the bed and struggled to the bathroom, searching desperately through the cabinet for something, anything that might dull the pain.

The worst thing about this was that he knew it would stop. It would fade and go away and he’d be fine until it happened again. He just didn’t know when it would happen again. The pain was awful but he’d get through it. The uncertainty was what was killing him.

At the back of the cabinet he found the packet of replacement blades for Enjolras’s wet shave razor. He stared at it for a moment, a terrible yet attractive thought beginning to gestate in the back of his head. 

Not to die, just to live. Just to think about something else, focus on an entirely different kind of pain, even just for a few moments. Think about something else, focus on the release, on the euphoria, on the reality of it. Then patch it all up neatly, concentrate on cleaning it up, on helping it heal. Because unlike other broken parts of this pathetic body, a few cuts to his arm would heal in a matter of days.

The packet was already open. Surely Enjolras wouldn’t miss one.

Feverish fingers extracted one from the packet. A few minutes later he had successfully prised it from its plastic casing so the light, silver blade lay innocently in the palm of his hand.

He hissed as another sharp pain shot through his side. He just wanted it to stop. Instinctively he took the razor blade between his fingers, dimly aware of the blood rushing in his ears.

Slowly, he brought the blade up to the top of his arm and waited. Deep breath, and then over the top of the next stabbing pain from his side he pressed the blade down and drew it towards himself. He gasped, eyes falling shut, the strange sting of the blade ghosting over his skin, drawing all attention away from everything else. It felt as though his skin moved out of the way, making space to accommodate the metal invasion.

Calm descended in a white cloud across his head and for the first time in weeks the buzzing in his ears stopped.

\---

When Enjolras came home, he found Aire where he had left him, wrapped up in bed, despite the hot Italian climate.

“Do you have any paracetamol? I can’t find any.” Aire mumbled, not moving from where he lay. He felt the bed dip and a clammy hand pressed to his forehead.

“You didn’t say you weren’t feeling well,” Enjolras murmured, his tone half scolding, half concerned.

“I’m fine,” he lied. Enjolras didn’t need to be bothered with the truth. He was happier not knowing. He heard the man shuffling round the room, the cracking of a packet and two tablets pressed into his palm.

“Two?” Was Enjolras rationing them or something?

“Well, that is the recommended dose on the packet.” And there was definitely a challenging edge to Enjolras’s voice. Aire sighed. He was far too tired to fight this particular battle so he let Enjolras have it and swallowed his two tablets, even though he was fairly certain they would be next to useless.

“Have you eaten anything?” Enjolras asked, standing back up but not taking his eyes off his boyfriend’s back. Aire grunted a negative.

“Did you want me to cook something? Or maybe I could order in?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“If you’re not well, you’ve got to eat something –”

“I said, I’m not hungry.”

Enjolras slept on the couch again that night.

\---

The next day was gallery set-up day. Enjolras went out early to get some coffee in the hope that it might coax Aire out of his shell, if not out of his bed and towards the gallery. Aire was having none of it.

“I’m not going.”

“I know this isn’t your favourite place in the world but you have to go. People are counting on you.”

“Tough shit.”

“Aire –” He reached forward but the man recoiled from his touch, burrowing deeper beneath the duvet.

“It’s not happening. I’m not going. So do yourself a favour and stop.” Aire’s voice was completely detached and emotionless. It was scary, it was terrifying. It was the worst thing Enjolras had ever witnessed. Something was very, very wrong and he had absolutely no idea how to even begin to try and fix it.

“Ok, I’ll go. I’ve seen you set up. I know which works you usually use.” He stood up, waiting for Aire to comment, to make a noise, to make any sign at all that he had heard Enjolras speak. There was silence.

“Grantaire,” There was a slight tightening of the shoulders but otherwise he still didn’t move. “We are talking about this when I get back.”

Aire waited for the door of the apartment to close before giving in to the sobs he had been holding in all morning.

\---

“Where’s Grantaire?” The guy at the gallery, as well as the three people hovering round the room, seemed extremely surprised and disappointed to find Enjolras arriving to set up R’s display.

“I’m afraid he’s not well. I think he has a migraine.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Enjolras had absolutely no idea what was wrong with Aire but a migraine seemed quite likely, judging by the desire to lie down in a dark room and take copious amounts of pain killers.

“Sorry to hear that,” the guy said, leading Enjolras through the hallways towards the relevant room. “He wasn’t great when he was here last time. Poor sod. I think the heat disagrees with him.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Enjolras replied, somewhat distracted. His whole head was full of possible things wrong with Aire. The more he thought about it the more he wondered whether he should just suck it up and call Eponine or Cosette, or even Joly might be able to help give him an idea of what he was dealing with. Either way they couldn’t carry on like this.

“Give him my best, yeah?”

“Will do.”

\---

Enjolras went over in his mind what he wanted to say to Grantaire as he fumbled with the key to the apartment.

_I love you. I really do love you. But I need you to tell me what’s wrong. I need you to let me help you. Because quite clearly something is wrong. You don’t eat. You’re not sleeping properly. You’re drinking more than usual (it had taken him a long time to come up with that part of the speech) and you don’t talk to me. Please, just tell me what you need._

The apartment was in silence. Clearly Aire hadn’t left his bed today. He sighed and walked towards the bedroom.

“Aire?”

Aire was on the bed and even in the shadowy darkness of the room, Enjolras could see he was shaking. He moved quickly across the room, reaching out to take his shoulder at which point he noticed that Aire was holding a pillow, clutching it tightly to his body, biting down on it savagely, his face contorted with pain.

“Oh my god!” he exclaimed, sitting down on the bed, trying to roll the man towards him, his heart exploding in his chest as Aire cried out at his touch. He reached over and switched on the bedside light.

“What is it? Oh god, please tell me!” he begged. Tears rolled down Aire’s cheeks, his face red with pain.

“It hurts. Fuck, it hurts,” he gasped, eyes clenched tight, his breath coming in shallow gasps before he twisted again, crying out as his body clenched together in pain.

“Where, my love? Where does it hurt?” he tried to keep his voice steady, his eyes roving over Aire’s body, searching for clues. After a moment he jerkily moved his hand to his side.

“My side. My fucking side. Oh fuck…” he rolled over, moaning into the pillow. Enjolras got up. Enough was enough. He was well out of his depth here. He needed an ambulance and he needed one now. He left the room briefly to grab the phone and was ever so grateful when the operator spoke broken English, enough at least to get the idea and the address.

A whole host of possible explanations rolled through his mind as they waited for the paramedics, from gastroenteritis to appendicitis. He knew it couldn’t be renal failure because Aire didn’t have a kidney that side… oh.

“Aire, have you been taking your meds?”

“Of course I fucking haven’t!” Enjolras was taken aback by the ferocity of Aire’s rebuke, the man managing to open his eyes to flash them briefly but accusingly in his direction. “They’re on order. You ordered them back in Berlin but they haven’t come yet.” Enjolras felt cold. He knew the importance of those pills. Suddenly everything slotted into place.

“I didn’t order any repeat meds, Aire.” He said quietly, confusion clouding his tone. To his horror Aire’s whole world seem to crumple on his face. The man threw his head back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, breathing harshly.

“You didn’t order any meds? Why would you do that to me?” he croaked. Enjolras was lost.

“I don’t understand. I didn’t do it on purpose. You didn’t ask –”

“I did! On the last day. I asked you as I left for the gallery to pack up. You were sitting at the table –” and he stopped talking, letting out a broken noise that might have been a laugh except that it was the emptiest, most hollow sound Enjolras had ever heard.

“That fucking laptop. You bastard.” Aire began to sob. “You bastard, you said you would. You said ‘yeah, definitely, no problem’” Aire’s voice took on a slightly hysterical edge as it rose to imitate Enjolras’s own. “And you didn’t.”

Those words haunted Enjolras as, at that moment, the ambulance arrived and all English went out of the window. Aire spoke to them in Italian through gritted teeth, evidently explaining his very long list of medical issues to the paramedics while they fussed about him and provided him with gas-and-air pain relief. Enjolras could only stand to one side

Eventually, Aire was helped down the stairs to the waiting water-ambulance. Enjolras made to follow but one of the paramedics turned to him, shaking his head.

“No, Signor. No room. You follow later.”

Enjolras could only stand and watch as the boat pulled away and disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies - I am a terrible person but if you've read any of my work this should not have come as a surprise :-p
> 
> A few notes...
> 
> "Death of the Author" is a philosophical construct that I pretty much live my life by. The concept that once an idea is created and is set loose on the world its author ceases to have any ownership over its development and evolution thereafter (ie, Victor Hugo has absolutely no say in anyone's interpretations of his characters. If there is an almighty creator of earth out there, its job started and ended with earth's creation and what has happened to earth since then is absolutely nothing to do with it.)
> 
> My description of nerve damage and its treatment is based on a real person that I know and I am only grateful that it isn't me because what they go through is awful. Naturally, it doesn't reflect how everyone who experiences sensory nerve pain will respond or be medicated. But I didn't just pluck it out of thin air.
> 
> Also, neither Enjolras or R are completely to blame here. Enjolras is an idiot for not paying attention to his surroundings but its obvious that he does care, and cares deeply. He just missed one of the most important conversations he and R could have. Similarly, R would probably deal with it better if he wasn't withdrawing hard from his meds. Either way, they're both daft as brushes.
> 
> I do still love Venice and the Doge's Palace is well worth a visit.


	6. Wish You Were Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“Tell me what you need, then.”
> 
> Aire finally looked at him. He slowly raised his tired brown eyes upwards to look right into Enjolras’s very soul and he stared, impassively. Enjolras’s blood ran cold.
> 
> “I need you to go away.”"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for self harm & mentions of suicide

Enjolras sat curled up on a hard plastic chair in the waiting room of the hospital. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that the hospital here had a different smell to the ones at home, reinforcing his isolation from everything safe and familiar.

Once the little water ambulance carrying Aire had disappeared from view, he had dashed back up to the apartment to gather a bag together and to ring Cosette. Through uncontrollable tears he managed to explain to her what had happened. The sound of her beautifully calm voice was balm to his banging head. She talked him off the ceiling, promised that she would take care of it and that he should call her with any more news once he was at the hospital.

That had been three hours ago.

Since then, Enjolras had been told, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be permitted to see Aire until his family or next of kin had arrived. As he was neither, he was welcome to wait in the waiting room for their arrival but he would not be going any further. Judging by the looks he received from the members of staff, the term ‘welcome’ had been used very loosely indeed.

This was Italy, not England. There was no legal recognition of same-sex relationships here. As much as he wanted to stage a loud and aggressive demonstration against such disgusting homophobia, he had sensibly decided that getting arrested at this point would not help either Aire or the situation at hand. He had therefore withdrawn to the plastic chair to await whoever was coming.

The buzz of his phone in his pocket startled him.

"Where are you?" Cosette sounded very serious and very stressed. He rubbed his eyes, trying to convince his brain to work for him.

"At the hospital" he sighed, getting to his feet and shuffling outside to avoid the frown of the receptionist. “They won’t let me in.” He heard Cosette sigh down the phone.

“I know. I’m dealing with it. Ep is already on a plane. She was in Switzerland so she shouldn’t be too long and she’ll go straight there from the airport. Can you pass me over to a member of staff?”

Enjolras didn’t even query the strange request; he merely stumbled back into the waiting room and handed the phone over to the glaring receptionist. There was a clipped and brusque exchange and then the phone was handed back.

Cosette said a few more words of encouragement before ending the call and he was left to his thoughts once more.

+

Someone was shaking him roughly by the shoulder. He must have fallen asleep at some point. He opened his eyes just as Éponine slapped his face.

“Shit!” He was wide awake now, blinking up in shock. Éponine stared down at him with the most terrifying look on her face.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. And there’s plenty more for later, I can assure you.” Her voice was trembling somewhere between anger and anguish. Enjolras dropped his eyes. He deserved that.

“What the fuck happened? You have until the nice Italian doctor gets back with the paperwork, so talk fast.”

“I don’t know. He ran out of meds. He said –” Enjolras gulped, shame overtaking him. “He said he asked me but I don’t remember. I swear, Ep, I don’t remember. And I didn’t realise -”

He broke off, his voice unable to continue. Her face softened slightly. She took him by the shoulders.

“Look, when this is over, when he’s better, I’m going to crucify you. Right now, though, I need you to hold it together for me.” She was crying too and suddenly she was clinging to him, both of them holding each other in lieu of the one person they wanted to hug at that moment more than anything.

Just then, the doctor returned. He glanced at Enjolras who sniffed angrily before sloping off to give them space to talk. _The next country they went to, they’d make damn sure Enjolras was listed as next of kin, not JVJ._

A chill ran down Enjolras’s spine. What if there were no other countries to visit. What if this was their last? He couldn’t get the image of Aire’s face, the agony, out of his head. He had betrayed Aire’s trust completely and what was worse he couldn’t even remember doing it.

Éponine reappeared by his side. She was extremely pale, paler than she had been five minutes before.

“We’re moving him to a private hospital. They’re just signing the release forms.” Her voice was broken and hoarse. She took several breaths as though trying not to be sick. She jerked her head suddenly to look at him.

“They said… they said he’s been cutting himself.”

That was it. Enjolras broke completely. His legs gave way and he sank down onto the floor, his lips gasping a silent moan. No. Not Aire, not his Aire. He had been in pain, so much pain, and Enjolras hadn’t even known.

+

“You should go home.”

Enjolras shook his head. There was no home. This was his home. Wherever Aire was, that was where he should be.

“He’s drugged up to his eyeballs, Enjolras, he won’t know.” Éponine leant forward on her chair, hoping to persuade the man to at least get a change of clothes and a shower.

“I’ll know,” he replied, despondently.

He wasn’t even sure what time it was, what day it was. They had travelled in a taxi behind the private ambulance all the way to the new hospital. He had watched them carry R gently to his new bed, hook him up to all the drips and monitoring equipment and then the staff had discreetly withdrawn.

The damaged nerves would settle once his meds started to kick in, but until then he had been given a large sedative so that his body could start to recover. Once that had worn off, he would be given morphine to control the pain until he was back to what he had been before the withdrawal. He had woken briefly some time before but the few garbled words he had uttered hadn’t made any sense.

In the passing hours, Enjolras had told Éponine everything; about how Aire had appeared to be out of sorts, how they had argued, how Enjolras had thought it was the upcoming trip to Venice. He told her he had thought he was doing the right thing, that he knew Aire valued his space and privacy, that he hadn’t wanted to crowd the man.

“Worst mistake of my life,” he muttered. “I can assure you, for the rest of his days, he’ll have to put up with me being clingy and invasive.” He had tried to smile but had failed, and she squeezed his hand, knowing only too well.

In the pit of his stomach he dreaded the moment when Aire woke up. He dreaded the inevitable conversation. How would Aire ever forgive him? How would he forgive himself? He cursed himself for not noticing that Aire hadn’t been taking his med. Those meds were so important, he knew that! He couldn’t even begin to bring himself to think about Aire, his precious Aire, harming himself, cutting himself.

He continued to mentally torture and berate himself until Éponine poked him in the side, telling him to go home. He shook his head. This was his home until further notice.

He and Éponine took it in turns to doze in the comfy chair, waiting for the sedative to wear off and for Aire to wake up. At some point, Éponine left the room to call Cosette and to fill her in on the situation.

Of course, that would be the moment he woke up.

“’Jolras,” he croaked, mouth dry from the medication. Enjolras leapt up to grab the jug of water, pouring out a glass and passing it over. Groggily, Aire leaned forward, taking it in a very shaky hand before bringing it to his mouth. Enjolras stood numbly at the side of the bed, waiting.

Aire didn’t say anything. He looked empty, his eyes shuttered, his shoulders slumped.

“Are you in pain? Do you need the nurse?” Enjolras asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Aire shook his head, not looking at him.

“Tell me what you need, then.”

Aire finally looked at him. He slowly raised his tired brown eyes upwards to look right into Enjolras’s very soul and he stared, impassively. Enjolras’s blood ran cold.

“I need you to go away.”

Enjolras set his shoulders as though preparing for battle, his lips pressing into a line.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He said firmly. Aire turned away from him, his face betraying no emotion.

“You’re trying to push me away and I won’t let you. I’m not going anywhere. You could call security right now and they’d need ten men to pick me up and carry me out. And after that, I’d sit outside your door and give a shout every sixty seconds to show you that I was still here, that I hadn’t gone anywhere, until you let me back in. So don’t even try.”

Aire didn’t move. Enjolras’s breath was coming in ragged gasps from the weight of the emotion burning out of every pore. He was going to get this right or die trying. He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“So, what else do you need?” He waited patiently. He could wait all night. He could wait all week.

Aire dropped his head, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He looked suddenly very young.

“I need you to… could you… please.” And Aire raised his arms slightly in invitation, his whole body shaking. Enjolras had to suppress the urge to throw himself onto the bed, instead opting to gingerly climb on and take this beautiful, broken man into his arms.

“I’m here. I’m here.” He said, over and over again, not sure who he was trying to convince more. “I’m so sorry, my love. So fucking sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.” He stroked his fingers through those wonderful curls, pressing Aire to him as though afraid he might vanish in a puff of smoke at any moment. Aire clung to him, his fingers tight on his skin but Enjolras revelled at the slight pain of it because Aire was here, too. And that was enough for now.

+

When Éponine finished her call with Cosette, she stuck her head in the room to find both Enjolras and R curled up around each other, sleeping peacefully.

+

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

Enjolras tried not to flinch. Aire wasn’t looking at him anyway; he was talking to the doctor who made no particular sign of having an opinion on the matter.

“It’s a coping mechanism. Replace one pain with another.” He fiddled with his fingers, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

He had insisted that Enjolras stay for this meeting, that Enjolras needed to hear it because he wasn’t going to go through it all again.

Aire had been in hospital for three days. Enjolras hadn’t gone home once, instead using the en suite bathroom to Aire’s private room to shower in, while Éponine had fetched clean clothes from their apartment. They had barely spoken a word to each other, neither one ready for that conversation. They were content to hold, to touch, to sleep with the other’s comforting warmth. Enjolras struggled to remember the last time they had fallen asleep and awoken side by side. When had life gotten in the way of them and their relationship?

The doctor asked a few more questions about how Aire usually functioned while taking his medication. Enjolras spoke up once, just to confirm that coming off the pills had been an accident, a miscommunication, one that would never be repeated if it could possibly be avoided. The doctor left, seeming satisfied.

An uncomfortable silence descended over the room.

“You didn’t tell him about your drinking.” Enjolras said quietly. Aire flexed his eyebrows but otherwise said nothing.

“I’m only mentioning it now because I didn’t before and that will haunt me. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know how to bring it up without upsetting you.” He tugged a hand fitfully through his hair.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He replied. Enjolras nodded. Aire sighed.

“We might as well do it now. We’ve put it off long enough.”

The two men regarded one another, both looking exactly the same; tired, guarded, resigned, devastated.

“Why did you agree to come with me?” Aire began, speaking very softly. He chewed nervously on his fingernail. Enjolras was startled by the question. He sat back for a moment to give it serious consideration. He had a feeling it wasn’t the real question being asked and that whatever he said next would be some of the most important words he ever said out loud, so he should choose carefully.

“In the first instance, I told you I would go with you because I couldn’t bear for you to leave, even for just six months. I just couldn’t be without you. In addition to that, I wanted to see your world, I wanted to see what your life was like while I was in London. I wanted to see you in your natural environment, if you will. But more than that, I wanted to be with you. Because I love you.”

Aire didn’t say anything.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?” And here it was, the crux of the conversation, the bit he had been dreading for the past few days. He knew there was a good chance the answer was no, he just wasn’t sure how it would feel when he heard it. There was only one way to find out.

He looked at Aire, waiting for the man to say something, anything.

“I love you too,” he said, his brow furrowed, “but I can’t do this… I just…” he shook his head, sighing in frustration. A harsh noise, almost a sob, treacherously escaped from Enjolras’s throat, unbidden. He threw a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

“Please don’t.” His voice was filled with terror. “Whatever you were about to say, just, don’t say it. Maybe in a month, if you still feel the same. But not now. I beg you. Please.”

Aire was shaking, his breath unsteady, trying to keep a grip on himself. How could this man stand there and say he loved him? Was it love? Or was it pity or fear or dreams of the past?

“You’re not in love with me, Enjolras, you’re in love with what I was. What we were. We’re not kids anymore. I’m different. I’m broken, you must be able to see that.” He raised his head. Surely Enjolras must understand, he must comprehend that he was completely different to what they had been as teenagers. Enjolras was in love with an echo, a ghost, he couldn’t possibly be in love with him.

Suddenly soft hands were wrapped around his own roughened fingers and Enjolras was there.

“No, I love you. Not the past. How could I love the past? It’s you, I see. You and all you can be. All that you are. Your talent, your wit, your amazing brain filled with languages and history and knowledge and people. Give me the time, and I’ll prove it to you.” Aire tried to pull free, laughing bitterly.

“Give you time? We’ve been on the road, just us, for nearly four months now and look what’s happened!”

“Not properly,” Enjolras wasn’t giving up. He knew how to fight and this was a fight he would win. “I want to go somewhere where it is just you and me. No galleries, no reps, no work, no laptop or internet connection or telephones. Nothing. Just you, me, and a roof over our heads. Give me time, that’s all I ask. Please.” He wasn’t above begging. This was Aire and he would beg on his knees across a road of broken glass if he thought it might help.

Aire paused, thinking it through. Enjolras saw a ray of hope and he took it with both hands.

“You can have my laptop, by the way. Take it away. Smash it with a hammer. Turn it into a piece of art and display it as a terrible warning to others. It’s yours.”

“You, me, and a roof.” Aire muttered to himself. “I think I know just the place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I'm trying, I really am but you can't fix these things over night.


	7. Better Pass Boldly Into That Other World In The Full Glory Of Some Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Aire begin the long journey to try and fix themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for self harm and talk of drug addiction

Enjolras shivered as he stepped off the plane, before carefully making his way down the steps and on to the tarmac of Cork airport. He looked up to see the retreating figure of Aire moving purposefully towards the Baggage Claim area. He forced his feet to move, to follow him, too tired to feel anything other than empty.

They had left Venice at eleven o'clock that morning, catching an initial flight to Amsterdam before transferring to a flight to Cork. Enjolras had spent the last two days packing and arranging and filling the silence. 

Aire had only been discharged from hospital yesterday afternoon. He had mostly slept apart from a couple of brief telephone calls, none of which Enjolras had been privy to. He only found out they were heading to Ireland when they had arrived at the airport. 

Aire had been distant but Enjolras hadn’t expected anything else. He felt in a constant state of terror after their conversation in the hospital, after those almost-words, words that hung heavily between them. This was a strange form of purgatory, a waiting time, with both parties cautiously observing the other. 

Last night they had slept together in the very traditional sense of the word, Aire stretched out on his side, face to the wall, while Enjolras curled up in a ball on the opposite side trying to hold himself together, telling himself it would be better once they got to where they were going. Aire was giving him a chance, had agreed to a period of time, just them and a roof. They just had to get there first. He recited this mantra to himself over and over until he eventually dropped off to sleep.

By the time they had cleared customs it was almost half past ten at night. Enjolras hoped that their hotel or apartment was close by so he could sink into a hot bath and then bed. 

Aire appeared to be dawdling in the arrivals area. Enjolras stood by, quietly, waiting to be told what to do. He had left everything to Aire. He had no plan which felt rather alien to him. He was uncomfortable with the lack of direction, however he forced himself to stay quiet. He needed to trust Aire and listen to whatever the man wanted because, heaven knows, he was in this mess through his lack of attention. He looked up as someone called out Grantaire’s name. Murtagh Breen came barrelling towards them. 

He seized Aire by the shoulders, pulling him in for a hug, gruffly but pleasantly greeting him. Upon release, he strode over to Enjolras, holding out a comradely hand which Enjolras automatically took, him arm being firmly shaken from its socket. He allowed the rough, Irish voice to wash over him as an arm was cast over his shoulders and he was dragged outside into the night.

They were led towards a car that was parked illegally outside the airport. Breen hastily encouraged them into the car before diving into the front seat and driving off before he could attract the attention of Security. He and Aire sat in the front seat, talking quietly. Enjolras sat in the back, staring out of the window, watching the darkness pass him by.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because the jerk of the car roused him. Groggily he looked at his watch. They had been on the road for well over an hour. Outside the car, Enjolras didn’t have much of an impression of the land around him. It was impossibly dark, the glow of the headlamps revealing only the dirt road and the expanse of nothing that surrounded them. He wasn’t even sure where in Ireland this was. 

There was silence from the front of the car. Either Aire had fallen asleep or he had said all he had to say for now. Enjolras wondered what he had told Breen about his sudden desire to visit, whether he had told him what had happened, what Enjolras had allowed to happen to him. He pushed that uncomfortable feeling away; if Breen chose to give him an earful for not taking better care of his friend then it was all that Enjolras deserved.

The car swerved off the main road – if it could be called a main road – and steadily made its way up what, as far as Enjolras could see, was little more than a dirt track. They proceeded along the lane for another fifteen minutes or so until Enjolras made out the shadow of a building coming into view. Another few minutes of slow driving and the car came to a stop outside a gate.

It appeared to be a shed in an otherwise empty field. Breen reached out to touch Aire on the shoulder.

“We’ve arrived, my friend,” he muttered gently before opening the car door. He swung himself out and let the door shut behind him with a clunk, leaving Enjolras and Aire alone.

“Here we are,” Aire said, his voice sounding very far away. “A roof.” He turned round to look at Enjolras, and Enjolras felt it was the first time Aire had actually looked right at him in a long time.

“Breen has agreed to take over my duties for the rest of the European tour, with setting up and stuff. He’s set up with me before so he knows how it all works. While he’s doing that, we’ll be staying here in Breen’s place. You said you wanted some time. This is it.” He stopped talking, as though interrupting himself. Enjolras waited but Aire said nothing further.

Enjolras didn’t know what to say. He felt like a rabbit stuck in the headlights, doom hurtling towards him. He knew he should say something, show some sign that he understood. That this was some sort of last chance for both of them, but to actually say that would be to acknowledge that it was a last chance. That terrified him more than anything else in the world.

“You two coming, or what?” Breen’s voice echoed through the car from the outside. Enjolras watched as Aire turned around then climbed out of the car.

+

Breen’s ‘place’ as Aire had so delicately put it, was an almost impossible building.  
It occurred to Enjolras, as Breen led them inside, that surely no one could live in such a building, although quite clearly Breen did. It was a simple artisan construction; the downstairs comprised of an open living area with an untidy desk, several book shelves, a large and ancient sofa, and an open fire. The fire cast a warm glow throughout the room. 

Breen moved easily in the semidarkness, lighting a few candles as he went. He explained with a grim smile that he had never had the place wired and it was probably safer that way.

Through a doorway was the kitchen which was a museum piece of the 1930s complete with dolly tub, peg and mangle. There was, however, an old AGA stove and, to Enjolras’s immense relief, running water. 

Breen directed them both upstairs, leading them with a candle. From the bedroom doorway, he pointed to a door which led to a small room he had converted into a bathroom. Enjolras stuck his head in there, glad to see it was actually a ‘proper’ bathroom of sorts. He had half expected an empty room containing a metal tub. He could just imagine having to climb those stairs with buckets of water heated from the AGA. He returned to the bedroom.

“You two can have my bed,” Breen said, waving them into the room. “Though I'd be grateful if you didn't fuck in it while I'm still here.” An awkward pause descended on the room.

Enjolras wasn’t sure if Breen was joking or not. From the look on Aire’s face, he guessed he hadn’t yet told Breen of recent events. Breen sensed the atmosphere, his eyebrows moving once as he shrugged his shoulders. He set the candlestick down and bid them goodnight. 

The bedroom was quite literally just that; a room with a bed in it. After a few moments of silence together, Aire started to strip off. He unzipped the suitcase and pulled out an old t-shirt which he threw on over his boxers. He held up Enjolras’s PJs, a question on his face. Enjolras nodded, taking them from him gratefully. It may have been August, but Enjolras wanted the comfort of familiar clothes and familiar scent against his skin.

He carefully climbed into bed, surprised by the softness of the mattress. From his left he heard Aire roll on his side. The room descended into darkness as Aire blew out the candle.

“Night, Aire,” he whispered. There wasn’t any response.

+

Enjolras was exhausted. As he lay in the dark in yet another unfamiliar bed, he finally allowed the full force of the past week to descend upon him, emotion after emotion engulfing him, swallowing him up.

He wondered how the hell they had gotten to this point, so close to complete fracture, when he had fought so hard to have Aire in his life in the first place. He wondered if it would be this way if he had stayed in London, if they had done the long-distance thing as Aire had suggested; keeping in touch by Skype and email. Then Enjolras wouldn’t have been here to screw up so badly. Aire would still love him.

The first tears started to fall and Enjolras just let them, too tired to be ashamed or embarrassed or disgusted with his weakness. If he couldn’t cry over the fact that his relationship with Aire was almost beyond repair then he was more machine than man. 

It occurred to him that it sometimes felt as though this terrible ache was all he could feel. He remembered it very clearly from eight years ago. It had come back two years later to lodge in his chest when he realised he had missed Aire at the airport. It had been there faintly last year in Bahorel and Feuilly’s flat when he sat in the dark watching Monty Python. It was a pain he associated with Aire’s absence. The difference was, on this occasion, the man himself was lying on the other side of the bed.

There was movement behind him and a warm hand pressed onto the back of his head, while long fingers moved through his hair before skirting his shoulder.

“Enjolras,” his name was breathed into his skin. The sound of Aire’s voice so soft in the dark did nothing to help as the tears began to fall faster.

“Hey,” The hands moved, arms pulling him back until he was flush against Aire’s chest, his head resting under the other man’s chin. It was too much. Aire was being so gentle and Enjolras could only sob in his arms. It was the wrong way round. Surely Enjolras should be comforting Aire. He struggled to move but Aire wouldn’t let him go,

“I’m sorry.” He finally managed to get his voice to work, his body collapsing against Aire’s. He had nothing left to fight with. “I just...” he gasped, turning his head to press his face into the man’s arm.

“I know.” Aire hushed him. “It’s a lot to take in.” 

Even now, Aire sounded slightly detached from events, as though he was rolling through the motions. Enjolras knew that should worry him but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care because Aire was hugging him, holding him close. Even if he didn’t mean it, even if his head and heart were elsewhere, Enjolras would take anything and everything at this point. Every moment felt finite, as though it might be the last time. So he cried in those arms, drinking in the scents and sensations, committing them to memory and hoping against hope that he would be able to do this again sometime, but without the tears.

+

R lay in the dark, feeling Enjolras’s shaking and sobbing gradually subside. When he first realised that Enjolras was crying, part of him had tried to ignore it, the same part of him that had ignored his whispered good night. It was the part of him that was still extremely angry, furious, over what had happened.

Enjolras hadn’t noticed when Aire had been in pain. He hadn’t been listening to him when he had asked him to re-order his medicine. He hadn’t noticed that Aire had stopped taking the pills. He hadn’t realised until he was screaming in pain and required an ambulance that anything was wrong at all. He looked at Enjolras with new eyes. He hardly recognised what he saw.

Enjolras had always been a source of comfort and light in his life; someone he had been able to go to and know it would be fine. But maybe those days were over. He wondered if their entire relationship was built upon trying to recapture their past. Did they really love each other? How could Enjolras stand there and claim to love him when he couldn’t even see how much pain he was in? Enjolras wasn’t in love with him, he was in love with the ghost of him; it was the only explanation. He was in love with someone who didn’t exist anymore. 

He wondered how he felt about Enjolras. He assumed that he loved him. Surely he had always been in love with Enjolras. He had loved him since he had first seen him. He loved him. Didn’t he? He thought about how empty he felt, how there had been an absence of anything other than pain once the medication had exited his system. A horrible thought crept into his head. What if it was synthetic? What if he only ‘loved’ Enjolras in the same way he only felt ok when he was taking the pills. If you took the pills away did his feelings for Enjolras disappear too? He fought to suppress that thought. He was letting his mind run away again as usual. He loved Enjolras. He hoped he loved Enjolras.

Of course he just couldn’t lie in bed listening to the other man trying to suppress his weeping. So he reached out to him and held him, letting him cry it out until Enjolras finally fell into an exhausted sleep. Aire lay awake for some time, feeling a contradiction of emotions, both empty and too full. He wondered how they would ever move forward from here.

+

Enjolras woke in the morning with grey light filtering in through the window. He had moved in the night, no longer enveloped in Aire’s arms. He had rolled away from Eniolras, back on his side, facing away from him. Enjolras watched him for a while, the sadness creeping upon him once more.

He wanted this to work. He wasn’t just going to sit by and let Aire walk away from him, no matter how justified he might be in doing so. He had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but he was going to fight, if only to show Aire that he did care, that he had always cared. He was going to devote all his attention to Aire.

He would start by bringing him a cup of coffee in bed.

Moving slowly, so as not to wake the sleeping man, he crept from the room and gingerly made his way down the stairs. Breen looked up from his desk as the bottom stair creaked.

The desk itself was old and looked to be made of solid oak. It was currently covered in paper stacked around an old typewriter. Enjolras half-expected Breen to be writing with a quill and ink. Breen crooked a smile at his appearance at the bottom of the stairs.

“Sleep ok?” he enquired, his voice low, no more than a whisper. Enjolras nodded.

“Is there any coffee? I wanted to take some up to R.” He stepped fully into the room. Breen nodded, gesturing towards the kitchen.

"There's a pan of water on the stove. Shouldn't take too long to bring back to the boil." 

Enjolras managed to smile his thanks and headed towards the kitchen. He eyed the AGA suspiciously. Suddenly Breen was behind him in the doorway.

"Try not to let the stove go out - it's a bitch to relight.” He commented, leaning against the door frame. Enjolras looked about him helplessly. Breen finally took pity on him, moving to show him how it worked. After a minute, the pan began to hiss as the water started to heat up. They watched it in silence, Enjolras unsure what, if anything, to say. He had only met Breen once before and hadn’t really spoken to him much on that occasion.

"Well you look like someone stabbed you repeatedly through the heart and he looks like he just spent a week in hospital so do you want to talk about it?" Breen folded his arms, a strange light expression on his face that somehow managed to convey the seriousness of the situation. 

Enjolras just shrugged, still feeling too numb to do anything but process his immediate movements. He kept his eyes on the pan.

"He stopped taking his meds again didn't he." It wasn't even a question, more a sigh of resignation. Enjolras snapped his head up in shock and what he had just heard.

"Has he come off them before?" He needed this man to tell him, needed to know what had happened. He hated that there were such important gaps in his knowledge of Aire’s life. Breen rocked his head to one side in acknowledgement.

"Once. When I first knew him. Didn't think he was daft enough to do it again." The words hung heavy in the air and Enjolras lowered his head in shame. He swallowed, trying to explain that it wasn’t Aire’s fault. Aire hadn’t stopped taking his meds on purpose. It was his fault. He hadn’t reordered them. He closed his eyes, waiting for the fury. None came.

"He's a grown man,” Breen said calmly. “You’re his boyfriend, not his baby sitter." Enjolras gaped at him. Had this man not heard him correctly?

"It's still my fault.” He insisted, emphasising with his hands. “I should have been listening. I should have been paying attention." He bit his lip, trying to get a grip on himself. Breen kept smiling at him sadly, his ancient eyes piercing him.

"It's just unfortunate,” his soft voice continued. “You can't blame yourself. It's the nature of the sickness. It's the depression that's to blame, or the fucker who stabbed him in the first place." Enjolras winced, unbidden images rising to the fore. "You must let them shoulder at least some of the responsibility. It can't be all you."

The kitchen descended back into silence as Enjolras puzzled over Breen’s words. Breen moved to get some mugs before spooning out the coffee. The pan was beginning to show signs of bubbling. It wouldn’t be long now.

"R blames me." Enjolras whispered these words very quietly, as though confessing them. Breen snorted, dismissively.

"That's the pain talking. You say all sorts of shit when you're in pain."

The pan began to bubble in earnest. Finally, Breen took it off the heat and poured it into the three mugs.

"So what happened last time?" Enjolras tried to sound casual but wasn’t fooling anyone and the look Breen shot at him proved that. But he answered, nonetheless.

"He hadn't been out of University very long and I think the pressure got to him and he stopped taking care of himself.” He leant back against the kitchen surface, taking a sip of his coffee. Enjolras marvelled. The coffee was boiling hot; surely Breen must have scalded his mouth.

“I met him in Bucharest. JVJ sent me out there on the pretext of doing some research for a play but actually I’d just been discharged from rehab. Cosette had me sharing a flat with this kid and I remember thinking 'shit, this guy looks just as rough as I feel' the poor bastard.” He smiled to himself at the memory of that first meeting. Enjolras waited quietly and patiently for him to continue, hanging off his every word.

“We started talking and he told me he'd just been discharged from hospital. He was so young. I felt bad for him because he was fully expecting Cosette to rip him a new one. Or maybe he would be kicked out of the Congregavit. So I told him about myself, how I'd just come from rehab and if Cosette was going to murder anyone it was going to be me. We’ve been firm friends ever since." He set his mug down on the kitchen side.

“Did he… do you know if he… if he harmed himself, that time?” Enjolras held his breath for the answer, far too terrified to look at Breen directed. He could hear the man considering his answer.

“He didn’t say anything to me directly,” he answered carefully. “But there were… signs.” He rested a comforting hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras didn’t know how he felt, to hear that Aire had self-harmed before. 

"Can I ask, what-" Enjolras blushed. It suddenly occurred to him that he had been about to ask an incredibly personal question.

"What was I in rehab for? Heroin.” Breen wasn’t ashamed. He was frank and honest with anyone who asked. “Been clean for three years, eight months and five days." He smiled proudly and Enjolras gave him a genuine smile in return.

They moved back out into the living area, Breen still talking and Enjolras listening, captivated, the coffee forgotten in the kitchen. Breen told him he had been with JVJ for ten years after he was approached when one of his plays was staged in Dublin. After that his career had taken off with terrifying speed. He had his poetry published, his plays performed. He was socialised and introduced and shown off. As a boy from the middle-of-nowhere, who had grown up being told to get his head out of the clouds and do something useful with his life, he had struggled to cope. Heroin had made it easier to deal with, easier to forget.

At thirty-five he had been a junkie and only with Cosette’s intervention and seemingly endless patience had he been saved from an inevitable early death. It hadn’t been easy, by any means, but he had done it himself. Now he contented himself with writing and directing plays for the local junior theatre. He oversaw a lot of projects for JVJ in Ireland, channelling the money to good causes and projects for young people who might not otherwise get the opportunity. Enjolras could tell by the look in his eyes when he spoke how much the work meant to him.

“Actually a trip abroad right now would be perfect. Auditions for the next play won’t start until the end of September. Plus I imagine me turning up will send the conspiracy nuts wild!” His eyes flashed with mirth but Enjolras’s own smile faded slightly.

“They all seem to think it’s me,” he said to his hands, frowning slightly. It had never sat well with him, having people mistake him for R. Breen snorted, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, I can understand why!” He exclaimed with good humour. “I remember when I first met you. I thought someone had spiked my drink. I had no idea R’s little muse actually existed.”

He paused at Enjolras’s confused face.

“Enjolras, have you ever actually looked at any of R’s paintings?” Enjolras frowned, furrowing his brow.

“Of course I have. I’ve seen all of them.” He asserted, defensively. Breen was still looking at him with wide eyes.

“Yes, but have you really looked?” Breen sighed, impatiently, as Enjolras continued to stare at him. He strode over to one of the bookshelves, glancing through it quickly before settling on a book, withdrawing it from the shelf and flicking through it. He returned to where Enjolras waited patiently before setting the book down in front of him.

It was from the Breakout series, one of the paintings of the King’s Park Lunatic Asylum. Enjolras knew it well. The shadows of the empty rooms contrasted sharply with the blue of the sky through one of the broken windows. He stared at it, wondering what he was supposed to be looking for. He looked back up at Breen who merely gestured back to the page.

He saw the shadows, he saw the leaves on the floor, he saw the empty broken beds, the light fittings hanging from the ceiling, the figure in the very background just disappearing from view…

He brought the book up sharply, as though its proximity to his face would help him to see clearer. He gasped. The figure in the background; you could only see one leg and half his torso as he walked out of the painting but it was definitely a male. A boy. A blond boy.

He turned the page. This one showed the Floor of Books. He cast an eye around the borders before scanning the books themselves. On the front covers of at least ten of the books, a familiar face stared up, framed with blond hair. How had he not noticed that before?

He turned to the next page and then to the next, spotting boy after boy, reflected in glass, waiting in shadow, disappearing from view, standing in the distance. He was there. Aire had put him in every painting.

“The Blond Boy in the Painting,” Breen spoke above him, gesturing to the pictures in the book. “The theories about you are almost as wide-ranging as the theories about R. When you first turned up at the Congregavit event I thought the internet might explode on itself.” Enjolras struggled to get his head round what he was seeing.

“But, I’ve read nearly all there is about R on the net; I’ve never once heard The Blond Boy mentioned.” He racked his brains, wondering if he just hadn’t noticed, hadn’t made the connection. Breen smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

“You read theories about the artist. Did you read the theories about his work?” he asked, gently. Enjolras sighed, his heart plummeting. He hadn’t read about R’s work. He had always felt he didn’t need to.

“So they think that I’m the artist because I’m in every painting,” he said flatly. It was a good theory. He could understand why it was so popular. It also put into context a whole host of other strange goings-on from the past few months; the way people spoke to him, looked at him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know how this made him feel at all.

The stair creaked. Both he and Breen looked up to see R at the bottom of the stairs. He looked confused, tired and cross.

"Are you talking about me?" His tone was flat but with a sharp edge. He stared right at Enjolras, sending a chill down his spine.

"Of course!" Breen answered cheerfully, moving away from Enjolras towards where R stood at the bottom of the stairs. “We were just swapping stories while we waited for the pan to boil. Enjolras was making you coffee.” He turned then, looking pointedly at where Enjolras was frozen in place. He took his cue and sped off towards the kitchen.

Naturally the coffee from before was stone cold. He poured it down the sink and began to boil a fresh one, whilst at the same time attempting to drive out the cold empty feeling in his stomach.

+

Aire had woken alone in bed. He had rolled over, reaching for Enjolras in a sleepy state. He hadn’t slept well. The last thing he had thought the night before was how much he wanted this time in Ireland to work. He wanted to start it by reconnecting with Enjolras. Perhaps some time together without work or distractions would help them to get to know each other again. Even if what he feared was true, that they were in love with the past rather than the present, that didn’t mean they couldn’t use it as a base to see if a relationship in the present was plausible. 

Enjolras’s absence from their bed hit him hard. It was the first morning and already Enjolras had got up without him, unable to make it one day without getting up and doing something rather than staying in bed so they could wake up together. He tried to remember the last time he had woken with Enjolras lying next to him.

He dragged himself out of bed, wondering if perhaps Enjolras had gone to the bathroom, but the sound of voices from downstairs confirmed his suspicions. As he got to the bottom of the stairs and looked into the living room, he felt the bitterness wash over him. Enjolras was reading a book. A book! He very nearly turned on his heel to walk back upstairs, except that they both looked up at that moment.

He was not mollified by Breen’s assertion that Enjolras was making coffee. Even if that were the case, Enjolras had quite obviously been distracted by other things. Again. He returned upstairs. 

Enjolras joined him not long after, armed with a cup of coffee.

“I wondered where you’d gone.” He said quietly, taking the proffered mug. Enjolras twisted his mouth, unable to meet Aire’s accusing eyes.

“I just thought you might like coffee in bed,” he murmured. Aire sighed, taking a sip of his coffee. They sat in silence for a moment, Enjolras standing against the wall, chewing his lip.

“I don’t know what to do, Aire.” He whispered. “Tell me, what can I do?” He looked up at him, the helpless expression in his eyes almost breaking Aire’s heart. He set the mug down on the floor and held his arms open. Enjolras scooted over to him, climbing onto the bed and burying himself in Aire’s arms.

“I love you, Aire,” he gulped into his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Aire’s shoulders, fingers pressing desperately into the flesh. Aire sighed, eyes closing at the pain in Enjolras’s voice. This was hard. This was so fucking hard.

“That’s why we’re here, Enjolras,” he murmured into his hair, breathing in Enjolras’s scent. “We’re going to try, aren’t we. That’s all we can do. We’re going to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're just outside Youghal.
> 
> Enjolras being in every painting started with the Trafalgar Sketch. After that, R tried to incorporate him into everything. Feuilly knows, but never said anything, assuming Enjolras just didn't want to talk about it.
> 
> The title is a quote from James Joyce.


	8. Then You Couldn't Make Things New Just By Saying "I Love You"

Breen had left just over twenty-four hours ago, leaving Enjolras and R alone in his place to try and sort themselves out.

He had politely declined Aire’s offer of a lift to the airport, and bid a cheerful adieu to them both before making his exit. Silence had then descended, occasionally broken by a cough or the sound of footsteps echoing on the floor. 

Enjolras was frustrated to the point of despair. He urgently wanted to talk to Aire. That was why they had come to Ireland in the first place; to try and fix what had gone wrong. Instead, Aire had returned to bed, citing a headache, and had remained there, apparently asleep.

Enjolras knew the man’s body was still struggling to adjust to the fluctuations of medicine in his blood stream, but he suspected this was another symptom of classic R-avoidance behaviour. When he had come to bed later that night, Aire hadn’t stirred.

The night had been split, peace fractured into a thousand pieces, as Enjolras was wrenched from sleep by a scream. Disorientated in the dark, it took him a few moments to realise the reality of the situation. Aire was screaming and thrashing around in distress. Enjolras reached out, using his voice to try and soothe him, to bring him gently back to their room and to safety. After receiving a few slaps to the face from angry limbs, rigid with fear, he managed to calm Aire enough to wrap his arms around him, rocking him carefully as he sank into a quiet sobbing. He pressed chaste kisses to his curls, whispering in hushed tones that he was there, that Aire was safe here with him. 

In the morning, Aire had managed to disentangle himself from Enjolras’s arms and was curled up on his side of the bed, apparently sleeping peacefully. He had been sure to stay in bed, reading a book, until Aire had woken up enough to notice that he was still there. They hadn’t spoken of the events during the night. Enjolras had wanted to, had wanted to check whether Aire was ok, but Aire gruffly retreated to the bathroom before he could enquire. When he returned, the moment had passed. 

Enjolras felt as though he was playing some sort of game, as though he needed to get events in the right order before moving on to the next challenge. He had fallen at the first hurdle yesterday by getting out of bed and leaving Aire to wake up alone. Today he would not make the same mistake, although he feared it might open up all sorts of opportunities to make new ones. He would deal with those as he came across them.

Having taken Aire a black coffee up to bed and established that the man wished to remain there for the time being, he returned downstairs to tidy a little. R wasn’t the only one avoiding conversation at this point.

At first Enjolras was content to sit quietly downstairs, poring over the books on Breen’s shelves, enjoying the silence of the place so that he could concentrate. After about two hours, he had popped upstairs to check on how Aire was doing, before returning to the kitchen with the intention of seeking out some lunch.

It didn’t take very long to realise there was little to no food in the place. The cupboards contained a few tins, some of which were even in date. There wasn’t a fridge or a freezer. The breadbin stood empty. There was nothing for it; he would have to go in search of a shop.

He shrugged into one of Aire’s jackets, officially because he did not wish to disturb the sleeping man by going into the bedroom to retrieve his own, but also enjoying the scent that washed over him, that enveloped him so completely. On his way towards the door, his eye fell upon the noticeboard hanging above Breen’s desk. He purposefully began to filter through the contents of the desk, looking for a blank piece of paper. Finally he pounced upon one and, using one of the seven biros littered across the desk, he wrote a large message to Aire that couldn’t possibly be misinterpreted.

THERE IS NO FOOD IN THE KITCHEN. I HAVE GONE TO THE VILLAGE TO FIND A SHOP SO THAT WE DON’T STARVE. I WILL BE COMING BACK AS SOON AS I CAN, HOPEFULLY WITH FOOD.

+

It took Enjolras over an hour to walk to the nearest village. It wasn’t a bad walk, considering that it was August. He imagined it would be a lot worse in the dark or in winter. The sun was warm, though thankfully it was not such an unbearable temperature as had been experienced in Venice. The air was fresher as well, clearer in his lungs somehow.

He had reached the end of the lane and turned right, hoping that it was a good choice. He timed himself on his watch; if he hadn’t stumbled across a village in thirty minutes then he would turn around, walk back and try left instead. Right had proven to be a good choice. Just before the thirty minute mark he began to spot signs of life. Fifteen minutes later and he found himself in the middle of a random gathering of houses, one of which he was delighted to note, functioned as a village shop.

He was greeted cheerfully by the shop owner who seemed, rather to Enjolras’s slight discomfort, to know exactly who he was.

“Oh, you’ll be down from Breen’s Place!” they said, voice obviously excited by his appearance. “He said he had people staying. Where are you from then?”

They were friendly enough and seemingly genuinely interested and Enjolras found himself answering. He felt as though it was the first friendly and genuine voice he had heard in a lifetime. He explained that he was from London, a word that lit up the shopkeeper’s face with delight.

“Oh, my cousin is in London. Perhaps you know him?” Enjolras doubted very much that he knew the cousin in question, and attempted to be as apologetic as possible when he was proven right a few moments later. The shopkeeper didn’t seem to mind, though, chattering on happily despite his not having met their relative.

“What do you do in London, then?” Enjolras paused, cold reality creeping into his bubble.

“I was a solicitor,” he answered, honestly, even if it did feel like a lifetime ago. Then, seeing their confused expressions, he continued. “I gave it up to go travelling with Aire.” He tried to keep his voice light. At the mention of Aire’s name, he was treated to yet another blistering smile.

“Is Grantaire with you?” They were thrilled; it was as if Enjolras had personally just made their day. It hurt to see such joy at the mention of Aire’s name. 

“You must tell him to get down to the Smithy Arms to give us a song or three one of these nights!” Enjolras bit his lip, fighting to keep his smile in place while assuring the shopkeeper that he would, indeed, pass the message on.

Before he left the shop, armed with enough groceries to keep them fed for at least three days, he made one last purchase; a telephone card.

Enjolras had dutifully turned his mobile phone over to Aire to be locked away in the suitcase for the duration of their stay. However, he desperately needed to hear a familiar, non-judgmental voice right now. He needed someone who would understand, who wouldn’t yell at him, who would be able to give him some good, solid advice. He needed Combeferre.

Exiting the shop, he crossed the road, heading towards the dilapidated telephone box. Most of the glass was missing and there was an unmistakable stench of public convenience surrounding it, but he held his breath as much as he could. He didn’t know how much information had filtered back to London, how much Éponine or Cosette would have told the others about what was happening between him and Aire, but right now he needed to hear a friendly voice if at all possible. 

He dialled Combeferre’s number from memory. It rang and rang.

It occurred to Enjolras, just before it cut to voicemail, that he had no idea what day of the week it was. It was highly likely Combeferre was in school. As Combeferre’s cheerful voice called out in rehearsed greeting, he remembered that it was August and that he was probably out enjoying himself with friends. It was with that final thought still echoing round his head that the beep sounded and he opened his mouth to speak.

“Ferre, it’s me. I, uh. I fucked up. I’m in Ireland. I just… I just wanted to hear your voice, I guess. I don’t know what to do. Can you… can you tell the others that I’m sorry. I’ll go now. Bye, Ferre.”

Regretfully, he replaced the receiver and made his way back to the road leading to Breen’s place.

+

Aire was up, sitting on the sofa, when he got back and he was glad he left the note. Aire raised his eyebrows but otherwise said nothing when Enjolras entered through the door. 

He made his way into the kitchen with the groceries, somewhat exhausted by his walk. He turned around and almost had a heart attack when he found Aire standing silently in the door way, watching him.

“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. Enjolras recovered quickly, nodding and emptying the bags to show his spoils.

“I’ll knock together some dinner, shall I?” He could hardly call it lunch, not when it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Aire shrugged, non-committal in his response.

“Well you should eat something.” He pressed, trying to keep his voice light as he turned back to the kitchen and began arranging things. When he glanced back to the doorway, Aire was gone.

They ate dinner together in silence.

It was Enjolras who began to light the first candles as dusk began to creep over the desolate landscape around Breen’s Place. As he moved about the room, he watched Aire intently. The man was sitting on the sofa, a couple of sketch books open on his knees, trying to capture the fireplace before him. He seemed quite calm, quite comfortable, but Enjolras was not a mind reader. He had no idea what was going on in that head.

He was strongly reminded of the days when they were both eighteen years old, when he had first reconnected with Aire in Sheffield. He’d had to relearn Aire all over again, get used to his mood swings, his extreme sense of self-sufficiency and privacy. It seemed as though those things, somewhat muted in London around Courfeyrac and Jehan, were rising once more to the fore of Aire’s personality. It was as though he was shutting himself down. Enjolras shuddered, remembering what had happened last time.

Well, this time was different. This time, they had both travelled here together to work through their problems. He repeated to himself over and over that Aire wasn’t about to leave the country for America again anytime soon. Aire had promised him. Well, practically promised him. He said that they were here to try, and he meant for them to succeed.

“Did you want a glass of water or something?” he asked, breaking the silence. The words echoed round the living room. For a moment he wondered if Aire would even answer.

“What for?” And really, what was Enjolras supposed to say to that? He huffed slightly, trying to think of something to say.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re thirsty, or you want to take some pills, or…” he trailed off as Aire turned around to stare at him over the back of the sofa.

“Are you fucking serious?” Aire’s furrowed brow glared at him across the room. “Are you seriously asking me if I’ve taken my meds today?”

Enjolras felt a stab of annoyance at that. He couldn’t win. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. 

“What do you want from me, exactly? You can’t shout at me for not giving a shit one day, and then take my head off for asking the next!” he snapped. Aire shot to his feet, face flushed.

“Why do you even pretend you care?” His words resounded like a slap across the room and Enjolras found himself taking a step back.

“What the actual fuck, Aire? Of course I fucking care!” and he was swearing now, which was never a good sign. “You scared me to fucking death in Italy. I had no idea what the hell was going on and yes I know that was my fault, I get that and I’m sorry –” 

“Oh I get that you’re sorry, Enjolras, you keep saying those words over and over again. But when it comes down to it you didn’t actually do anything, did you.” There was a terrible silence as those words sunk in.

“I tried, Aire, but you don’t exactly make it easy for people. I tried everything I possibly could with you but it all came back to slap me in the face. I tried to get you to eat but you refused. I asked you what was wrong but you wouldn’t talk to me. I tried to give you some space so you could try to get some rest because I thought you needed the sleep.” Aire snorted, whirling around to plonk himself down on the sofa, but his apparent nonchalance only spurred Enjolras on further, the pent up emotions of the past few days exploding out of his heart.

“I’m not a mind reader, Aire, I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what you want from me.” He moved round to stand in front of the fire, staring down at the man on the sofa, his arms folded as he stared at the floor.

+

Aire’s head was pounding. He couldn’t bear to look at Enjolras right now, it was so painful. He tried not to listen to his words, to his assertions that he did care. He tried to hold on to what he understood because there was so little in his life that made sense at the moment.

He wanted to be anywhere but here right now. He needed some space. He needed to be away from here, away from Enjolras. He couldn’t do this anymore. It just hurt too much.

Enjolras had stopped shouting. He looked up to see the blond man staring at him with wide eyes and he realised he must have spoken aloud.

“This isn’t working, is it. We’re just… we’re just shouting at each other. Look at us!” He waved his arms in the empty air between them. Enjolras still hadn’t moved. Aire wished he would say something, anything. To agree, to disagree, to react in some way; not to just stand there dumbly, allowing Aire to just rip them apart as though it was nothing, as if it was inevitable.

“Please,” Enjolras had found his voice. Aire closed his eyes, trying to let the pain in that voice bounce off him.

“Please stop. You said.” Enjolras was whispering now, his voice unrecognisably hoarse.

Aire knew what he’d said but he just didn’t have the energy. This was too fucked up. Too fucked up to fix. They should just stop kidding themselves, stop dragging out the inevitable.

“Look, let’s just call it a night. Yeah? I can’t do this right now.”

+

Enjolras used to look peaceful when he slept. Aire remembered all those many mornings where he had woken before the golden god before him, where he had watched him sleep. He had been content to gaze upon that angelic face, wondering what it was he dreamt of.

Now his face was lightly troubled by a frown, a furrow of the brow, a scrunching of that perfect nose. His sleep was no longer restful and Aire knew it was his fault, that he had done that to him.

He thought of the night before, of the night terror that had threatened to engulf him completely. He thought of Enjolras’s arms, trying to hold him, trying to make it better. But he couldn’t make it better. He would always be this broken shell.

Enjolras would be better without him. He wouldn’t have to worry about Aire anymore. He should just leave. He should stop them from ripping each other apart.

Quickly, quietly, he gathered his things in his rucksack and stole silently down the stairs and out into the night. 

+

When Enjolras woke alone, he wasn’t immediately concerned. He waited in bed for a while, listening out for the rattle of the bathroom door handle. After a while he stretched out and pulled himself out of the safety of the duvet before padding down the stairs, expecting to see a familiar tuft of curls poking out above the back of the sofa. The living room was empty.

His head snapped to the message board. He searched in vain for a scribbled note to indicate where Aire had gone and what time he might return. His legs carried him back up the stairs, as though Aire might magically reappear, his sardonic grin mocking Enjolras for his concern. The upstairs remained empty. It was then he noticed the absence of Aire’s bag.

Something very deep inside Enjolras broke completely. Aire was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, it's hard to see these two fuck this up so badly.


	9. Close Your Eyes And Just Reach Out Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're all really cross with me right now. Before you hang me out to dry, however...
> 
> (also, many thanks to epeolatry for helping me with this. It was invaluable x

The world was starting to wake, the sun fully up, by the time he reached the village. R found the bus stop and sat down to wait, not caring when the bus was due or where it would go. There was a slight chill to the air but he ignored it, ignored everything, trying to focus on the bus journey ahead.

The walk had cleared his head a little. He felt strangely calm and it took him a moment to realise that it was the first time he had been outside in the fresh air in what felt like weeks. He wasn’t tired and he wasn’t in pain. In the context of the last few weeks it was pretty close to heaven.

He fished around in his bag for his cigarettes, finally locating them at the bottom next to his phone. He brought both out, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag before switching his phone back on.

His phone had been off ever since he had boarded the plane in Venice. Now it trilled and vibrated in protest at having been ignored for so long as messages and missed calls from the past few days flooded in.

He scrolled through the missed calls, surprised to see that six of them were from Combeferre yesterday afternoon. He looked at his watch, before deciding that half past six in the morning was no time to be ringing anybody, no matter how many unexpected missed calls they’d left on your phone.

Next he turned his attentions to his email.

The one at the top caught his attention. It was from Cosette and the title was set out in capital letters; BEFORE YOU DO ANYTHING ELSE, READ THIS. He obligingly clicked on it.

_If you are reading this alone, if Enjolras is not by your side, then I strongly recommend that you stop whatever you are doing, turn around and go back._

_I don’t know what happened, I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know that he loves you and that you love him. Life is too short._

_Of course, I could be wrong and he could be reading this over your shoulder, laughing in confusion in which case I apologise. If he’s not, then I would just like to remind you that this is ENJOLRAS that we are talking about._

R decided in that moment that this person wasn’t Cosette at all, she was Cassandra. How the fuck had she known? He checked the time stamp of the email; it had been sent nearly ten hours ago. 

He read through the last line again, each word like a blow to the stomach. _This was Enjolras._

Enjolras whom he had loved since the first moment he had set eyes on him, nearly nine years ago. Nine years ago in three weeks’ time to be exact. He had been a lot less broken, then, merely damaged, yet Enjolras had loved him all the same. 

R scrolled back through his memories to a moment long ago in a spinney in the rain. 

_You seem determined to have me embarrass myself as fully as possible…_

Young hands clinging to each other as confessions were made, making those first tentative steps into an uncertain world. _Little did we know_ , he thought ruefully. Enjolras had apparently loved him for almost as long as he had loved Enjolras.

But that was then, this was now. He had told Enjolras in Venice; they weren’t kids anymore. They couldn’t live in the past.

Sitting at that bus stop in the fresh morning air, R blushed at his words. He knew their relationship was built on sturdier rock than that. His mind wondered back to last Christmas, to those glorious and precious hours in the hotel in Sheffield. He remembered the way Enjolras’s eyes had shone with purpose the day he had told him he had to leave for Europe, how he hadn’t even hesitated, he had just followed. 

He thought of the way Enjolras had looked at him that night at the restaurant in Budapest. He thought of him at the Congregavit in Paris, talking to Cosette and Eponine at the bar. Enjolras with their friends at Disney, going on It’s A Small World not because he wanted to, but because R had asked him to. And finally, Enjolras at the hospital, refusing to leave his side. He looked back down at the email from Cosette with shame.

He knew if his grandmother was here she’d give him an earful and it would be well deserved. This was Enjolras. The man who had saved his life, who had been there for him in his darkest moments; the same man he had walked away from once before out of fear. He had undergone years thinking he would never get to have him back in his life and now he was walking away again; he could almost hear his sixteen-year-old self shouting at him through time. 

A hand to the shoulder startled him, pulling him from his deepest thoughts. The bus had arrived.

“You getting on, there, son?” A man who had evidently also been waiting for the bus enquired politely. Aire shook his head.

“Sorry, I’ve just remembered something important,” he muttered, distractedly, before getting to his feet. He turned and started to head back towards Breen’s Place.

+

Enjolras wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting on the sofa. It had just sort of happened. Once he had realised Aire had gone and the full implications of that horrible truth, he had only just about managed to get as far as the sofa, drawing a cushion to himself and clutching it tightly. That action alone had wiped out his reserves and he was unable to do anything else.

Aire was gone. Aire had left him.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he knew he should be doing something. He should be calling Combeferre or sorting out a flight home. But that would mean moving. That would mean moving forward. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that right now.

He missed the first knock at the door. Or maybe he didn’t, maybe his brain wrote it off as wishful thinking on his part. Either way he didn’t move or react in any way. 

The second knock at the door, slightly more aggressive than the first knock, caught his attention enough for him to lift his head. The third knock brought him to his feet. He had no idea who could possibly be knocking at Breen’s door before half past eight in the morning. He wasn’t even sure why he was bothering to answer; it was as though his feet were operating on autopilot.

He managed to open the door.

+

Aire was fidgeting nervously outside the door. Maybe Enjolras was still asleep. It was barely half past eight in the morning, it was entirely possible that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed his absence and was, at this very moment, stumbling bleary-eyed down the stairs wondering who on earth could possibly be knocking at this hour.

This illusion was swiftly shattered as the door opened, revealing a most appalling sight. Aire’s chest contracted as he took in the stooped shoulders, the hollow eyes. Enjolras was broken. It took everything Aire had right then to stay put and not run. He wanted to run. He wanted to run as fast as he could away from what he had done. But he stayed. He breathed out, slowly.

"I'm sorry."

+

Enjolras stared at the R-shaped mirage outside the door. It looked like R and it sounded like R. But R had gone. R had left.

"You left."

His brains were moving far too slowly, as though struggling through treacle. Aire ducked his head, lowering his eyes to the floor. There was a pause.

"I know. But I came back."

Suddenly the arms were moving and that was definitely not at the bidding of his brain. His brain had long since left the building but apparently his arms didn’t need his brain because they were reaching forward and his hands were grabbing the front of Aire’s coat and pulling him forward, pulling him close until they were mere inches apart. When the next word came it was quiet. Not angry, not shouted, not even spat. Just spoken, softly.

"Why?"

And now his brain was working. Maybe it was the touch. Maybe having his fingers flexed through the fabric of Aire’s coat; maybe having the man so close he could feel his breath upon his face; maybe having his eyes mere inches away from his own had woken up everything else because now he could think and this was important. Aire had left. But he had come back. He was here. Now. The next thing out of Aire’s mouth would be some of the most important words he would ever hear.

“Why?”

"Because I love you too."

Maybe this was a hallucination born of hysteria, his over-emotional state and lack of food, water and sleep. But he honestly didn’t care. He pressed forward, pulling Aire towards him, and he was kissing Aire properly. 

It wasn’t necessarily memorable or one for the books. It wasn’t the sort of kiss that turned beasts into princes or set off fireworks but it was the first kiss they had shared since Italy and as far as Enjolras was concerned it was the best kiss they had ever shared. Aire’s lips were warm against his own. He was real and he was here. He sighed happily before pulling back.

+

Aire was on cloud nine. He was seconds away from losing balance, Enjolras having seized him firmly and pulled him forward before he was able to set his feet into a more stable position, but he honestly wasn’t thinking of that. His head was full of Enjolras. He was unable to suppress a whimper as the man who had been so firmly and so perfectly embracing him only seconds before, now pulled away. He opened his eyes, expecting reproaches and anger. What he saw was even more stunning.

Enjolras stood before him looking radiant. His eyes were still shadowed, his face pale, but his cheeks were flushed and the smallest of smiles was threatening, tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked calm. He looked like Enjolras.

“Come,” he murmured, his voice warm and soft, leading Aire into the living room and towards the sofa. “We should talk”

Enjolras was right of course. If there was one thing they definitely needed to do, it was talk.

+

“Why did you come back?”

They were tangled together on the sofa, Aire lying on top of Enjolras, back to chest, while he ran his fingers softly through Aire’s curls, teasing them gently in the most relaxing fashion. Talking was easy like this.

"Do you want to romantic version where I couldn't bear to leave you? Or the real version where Cosette kicked my arse?" Even now, Aire would never lie to him.

He was relieved when Enjolras chuckled. It was a musical sound and his heart ached to think that he hadn’t heard it in so long.

"Cosette -?"

"She knew I'd run,” he explained, sighing deeply. He tugged a hand through his hair in frustration at himself, brushing against Enjolras’s fingers. 

“There was a message waiting for me when I switched my phone on. Reminded me what was important.” There was a pause. “That's you by the way." He was rewarded with a kiss to the top of his head.

"She's smarter than me,” Enjolras murmured, his voice sad. “I didn't think you'd run."

"You didn't?" Aire wriggled in order to look up at Enjolras, to meet those blue eyes he knew so well. Enjolras smiled down at him, a smile that was almost a frown.

"I hoped. I'll always hope." Enjolras confessed quietly, pressing his lips to Aire’s curls as though willing them to hide his words. Aire closed his eyes.

"Fucking idealist."

They weren’t fixed, not by a long shot. It would take time. But they were better. They were talking. They understood where each other stood. And Aire knew, no matter what, there was no other place he would rather be right now.

+

They were startled from their conversation by the shrill tone of Aire’s phone. It took them a moment to recognise what it was, and they almost missed the call by the time Aire had leapt up from his comfortable position on the sofa.

From the across the room, Enjolras recognised Combeferre’s voice and it sounded as though he was shouting.

“Hang on, he’s here. I’ll pass you over.” Aire’s face was crumpled in confusion as he held the phone out to Enjolras. He motioned towards the kitchen, indicating that he would be making coffee. Enjolras nodded and turned his attention to the angry friend at the other end of the phone.

“God damn it all to hell, Enjolras, where have you been? I’ve been going out of my mind. You can’t just leave cryptic messages on people’s answer phones and then disappear off the face of the planet!”

Enjolras tried to sound contrite, he really did, but he was a million miles away from the lonely, desperate person who had left that message on Combeferre’s voice mail the day before. He muttered assurances and apologies, all the while his eyes focused on the kitchen door, catching glimpses of the man within as he moved around, setting the pan on the AGA to boil water.

“I’m sorry, Ferre. I didn’t mean to worry you. It just got a bit much.”

Combeferre paused in his tirade.

“I take it you’re ok now?” he clarified. Enjolras smiled to himself.

“I think so. I hope so. We’re certainly trying our best.”

Combeferre hadn’t the first idea what on earth his friend was talking about. He considered for a moment whether he actually wanted to know. In the end he decided that, as his friend sounded much happier, much less like he was about to throw himself into a river than he had yesterday, then that was sufficient for now.

After a few more admonishing sentences he bid Enjolras a good day and hung up, just as Aire returned with coffee.

“You survived then. For a minute there I thought we were in serious trouble.” He attempted a small smile and was relieved when Enjolras smiled back.

“I have no doubt that I’ll be thoroughly lectured on my return to London about my communication skills.” He shot a significant look at Aire. “Though I think by then we might actually have made some progress on that front.” Aire couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

+

“I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

Aire stood up and stretched. They had been talking now for over seven hours, not including the short interlude for lunch. Admittedly they hadn’t necessarily stuck to one topic but the talk had been refreshing and a welcome change to the silence that had reigned previously. Something had loosened. The dam had been breached.

But now it was heading towards evening and both men had stiff backs and necks from sitting still all afternoon.

They trudged across the field, cutting a path away from the house in the opposite direction to the lane. Enjolras could tell that Breen must take this path quite often as it had been worn into the grass.

In ten minutes he found himself outside a drinking establishment set at the side of a road but otherwise in the middle of nowhere with no other houses or buildings nearby. He looked up at the sign outside.

“The Smithy?” Aire grinned at him.

“The very same,” he confirmed, pulling Enjolras towards the door.

Thirty minutes later he was sat at the bar surrounded by extremely friendly and decidedly inebriated locals, all of whom seemed to know Aire. He gathered from previous encounters that the guy had spent some time here in the past, staying with Breen. He had no idea of his mini-celebrity status.

They had been leapt upon as soon as they had entered the pub. Aire was entreated, begged, to go to the piano and give them all a song. He, in turn, had begged to be allowed to order a drink first and Enjolras had found himself armed with a pint of stout not long after while watching with delight as R was manhandled towards an old piano in the corner.

Enjolras had no idea that Aire could play the piano. He certainly had never touched the instrument as long as he had known him. He was astounded when lithe fingers moved easily across the keys, recognising the familiar strains of Whiskey in the Jar, a song that was quickly taken up and belted out at full volume by the residents in the bar.

At one point, Enjolras didn’t think they would be permitted to leave.

“Give us another, son!” came the cries after every song had finished, and Aire would obligingly launch into another. He played Bohemian Rhapsody, American Pie, Uptown Girl, and a particularly enthusiastic version of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go which had seen at least eight people dancing on tables.

“Ok, ok, this is the last one,” Aire had insisted, his pint hardly touched. The residents had sulked and cheered and otherwise encouraged him to play. At first, Enjolras didn’t recognise the song, but then Aire started to sing.

“ _Saying ‘I love you’ is the not the words I want to hear from you. It’s not that I want you not to say but if you only knew…_ ”

The bar quietened down into a revered hush as Aire continued to sing to the piano keys. Enjolras watched him from his place by the bar, a strange ache stealing over him.

“ _Hold me close don't ever let me go!_ ” His voice rose into an impressive crescendo, the hairs on the back of Enjolras’s neck rising in rhythm with the song.

“ _Then you couldn’t make things new, just by saying ‘I love you_ ’” A few more chords, and the song was done. The bar exploded into applause, but Enjolras’s smile didn’t quite make it to his eyes. 

He feared for tomorrow. Today had been good. Today had been excellent, more than he could have hoped for. He and Aire hadn’t spoken so much in months, maybe even years. 

They had talked about nearly everything, about Aire’s fears and Enjolras’s reservations. They talked about the fact that they didn’t talk, a particular failing in their relationship. They spoke about the past, about the worry that the past was all they had. They chatted about happy memories, times shared. They discussed London, their friends and what they would do if they were here.

They hadn’t spoken about the future; that was yet to come.

Perhaps most importantly, they had agreed to forgive each other, as well as themselves. This particular part of the conversation had gone on for a long while. Enjolras didn’t blame Aire at all for what had happened or the way he had reacted; he blamed himself, completely and utterly. Aire had disagreed completely, assuring Enjolras that at least some of the blame should be allocated to him. He argued that he should have realised sooner the effect the withdrawal was having on his moods. For a dangerous couple of minutes it had looked as though they would fall out over it, until they had both sensibly suggested that apportioning blame was pointless; they should simply agree to start again.

As he drained his pint, he watched as Aire laughed and joked with the old boys of the bar and he felt a stab of worry. What would tomorrow bring?

Eventually Aire managed to escape from his friends and rejoin Enjolras. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He reached out his hand, brushing Enjolras’s fingers with his own, a small smile playing about his mouth. They finished their drinks.

As they made their way across the black field, a small torch casting a pathetic amount of light across their path back towards Breen’s Place, Aire bumped his shoulder. He felt that gentle rough hand seize his own, fingers lacing together intimately. 

“We’re going to be ok, Enjolras. I don’t care how long it takes. We’re going to be fine.”

Enjolras believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY!
> 
> So, am I forgiven yet?
> 
> Ok, so Cassandra was King's Priam's daughter and she was gifted with prophecy - she could tell the future.
> 
> Irish pubs with pianos - there's no escape!
> 
> Obviously I have been gratuitously quoting from More Than Words by Extreme.


	10. The Law of Complementary Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aire didn’t open his eyes immediately. He kept them closed, savouring the sense of peace for as long as possible. Right now, he could feel the warmth of Enjolras curled around him, his arm over his chest, that perfect face nuzzled into his side. But he knew that if he opened his eyes, if he gave any indication of being awake, then Enjolras would withdraw, would retreat to a respectful distance."
> 
> It's good, but it's not right. But they are working on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for allusions to self harm and some talk of scars

Aire didn’t open his eyes immediately. He kept them closed, savouring the sense of peace for as long as possible. Right now, he could feel the warmth of Enjolras curled around him, his arm over his chest, that perfect face nuzzled into his side. But he knew that if he opened his eyes, if he gave any indication of being awake, then Enjolras would withdraw, would retreat to a respectful distance.

It had been two weeks since the Turning Point and since then things had been steadily getting better. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t quick but it was working. They were making it work.

The first thing that had been put in place to help make this work had been the noticeboard. The morning after the night at the pub, Enjolras had paced and fretted and hopped about the living room looking pensive and stressed until Aire had cracked, demanding that he spit out whatever it was the man wanted to say. It was so alien to see Enjolras stutter and stumble over words. Eventually he had managed to convey that he merely wanted to know if Aire had taken his meds that morning.

Aire had taken a deep breath before calmly responding that he had, in fact, taken them about half an hour before. Then they had sat down to have a very long discussion about how Aire liked his privacy, how Enjolras didn’t want to intrude, but that it was quite clear there had been a communications failure in the past that both Enjolras and Aire were keen not to repeat.

Aire couldn’t remember whose idea it was, only that the solution to that particular problem was so simple and yet so brilliant. He agreed to write a little note and place it on the noticeboard; something to the effect of “I have taken my meds today”. Enjolras could then tick it or sign it to show that he had seen Aire’s sign. It would be a physical representation of Enjolras paying attention. Both men would then be happy without actually having to talk about it. It was a perfect system.

For the first three days, Aire had written “I have taken my meds” in various different fonts and Enjolras had scribbled ‘OK’ in different coloured ink. On the fourth day, he had drawn a picture of a medicine bottle with a big tick next to it. Later that day, a smiley face appeared next to the bottle. On the fifth day Aire had scrawled a little doodle of him taking his meds. Enjolras had responded with a happy stick figure. Now it had evolved into something of a routine and Aire enjoyed it. He relished coming up with something different each day and then waiting to see how Enjolras replied.

The days had gone by quietly. They took walks together, they went for coffee in the local café and read the paper. In the evenings they played scrabble or went to the pub where Aire would be asked to play the piano again. Enjolras seemed to enjoy listening to him play. He would sit at the bar, occasionally persuaded to drink a pint rather than his usual lime and soda, while the locals sang and cheered and begged for more. Aire could feel those eyes watching him as he played.

Last night, Enjolras had surprised Aire by asking him to go on a date with him. They had taken a taxi to the next town over, a twenty-five minute car journey away. He had booked a table at the little restaurant there. It was an intimate location and Aire had enjoyed himself immensely. They had talked a little about home, about America, about anything that wasn’t the last five months. Enjolras had spoken a little about his University days, how he had met Courfeyrac, Bahorel and the others in his first year. They had held hands in the taxi home. But that was as far as it had gone.

Aire sighed. He knew it was his own fault. Well, sort of. It was the bloody depression’s fault. Either way, Enjolras had thanked him for a lovely evening, kissed him sweetly and chastely, before getting into his PJs and retiring to his side of the bed. Aire had lain awake for some time afterwards wondering why the perfect date hadn’t ended with the mind-blowing make-up sex he had been looking forward to.

Of everything that had changed in the last month, Aire missed the intimacy more than anything. It was lovely to wake up beside Enjolras again. He adored the way those charming blue eyes looked at him sleepily, a small smile playing about that cherubic mouth. But the hugs were always far too short, the kisses far too chaste. Enjolras was holding back, and while he understood why – at least, he thought he understood why – it still hurt.

He must have moved, or sighed or something because Enjolras’s arm started to withdraw. He snapped his eyes open and before he knew what he was doing he moved to seize Enjolras by the wrist, causing the other man to freeze.

“Don’t,” he murmured, not releasing his grip. He turned to look at Enjolras, to try and read his expression. He wondered if maybe Enjolras didn’t want this, didn’t want him like that anymore. Why else would he refuse to hug him, refuse to touch him in bed? And then it struck him; _they were doing it again_.

As the realisation hit him, he jerked up to a sitting position, the sudden movement causing a flash of alarm across Enjolras’s face. He reached out to take the man’s hand, pressing it between his palms.

“Enjolras,” he spoke quietly, whispering the name as though it were a prayer. “Why…” He paused, trying to find the right words. He wanted to be understood without it starting a row. Enjolras sat patiently, allowing him the time, eyes expectant.

“You don’t seem to want to touch me.” 

Enjolras chewed his lip, his face drawn up with concern, but made no move to answer. Aire decided to elaborate. 

“I could have this wrong and I know we’re meant to be doing the whole communication thing so I’m just going to ask because it seems to me as though you either don’t wish to touch me, or you do want to touch me only you think I don’t want you to, so you only touch me when you think I’m asleep which sounds really creepy but I don’t think it's creepy and I’m sure you don’t intend it to be creepy but the fact is I miss you.” He took a deep breath. He’d been babbling; after all those intentions to be clear, that had been about as clear as mud. But Enjolras was smiling sadly.

“I do want to touch you, Aire. Of course I do. I miss you too.” He sighed, shaking his head, rubbing an eye with his hand. “You’re right, I did think you didn’t want me to touch you. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

Oh god. Aire swore they would have to ban that expression completely. There’d been enough apologies said in this house to last at least three marriages.

“Ok, before we go any further –” He held out his arms wide and inviting and he was relieved when Enjolras scooted over, folding himself into them as though he had been born and made to fit within their safety.

“For the record,” he murmured into Enjolras’s shoulder, “I would love you to hug, embrace, poke, prod, cuddle, tickle and otherwise manhandle me to your heart’s content.” He felt Enjolras sigh in his arms. 

“Can I ask,” he pulled back but not very far, just far enough to be heard. “What was it that made you think I didn’t want you? That I didn’t want this?” He needed to know so that he didn’t do it again because Enjolras in his arms was one of the best things in his life. Enjolras looked at him blankly.

+

It was an intense conversation to have at the best of times, talking about how he and Aire had only slept together in the dictionary definition of the word since Aire had been discharged from hospital. Having only just woken up, his mind was still a little foggy and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

Enjolras had missed this tremendously. He missed how Aire’s arms seemed to encompass him completely, how he could quite happily get lost in Aire’s presence, Aire’s scent. But he had deliberately held back, given Aire all the space he needed. Apart from anything, he had so very nearly lost it, he wasn’t about to rush anything. He would go at Aire’s pace. Now Aire was asking him why.

“I just… I wasn’t sure it was what you wanted.” He struggled to find the words, to find the reasoning as to why he had been holding back. He needed to explain that he wanted Aire to be absolutely sure and certain of what he wanted before they did anything else. He wasn’t sure how clear or concise he was being but he was relieved to see Aire nodding in understanding.

+

Aire could sort of see where Enjolras was coming from. There had been a lot of mixed messages floating around, not to mention they had been working through the worst row they’d ever had. Enjolras had been treading carefully, a little too carefully perhaps. Aire was grateful; he appreciated the gesture, but there was one more snag of doubt hiding in the back of his head.

“So it’s not –” he stopped, wondering if he should continue. Enjolras squeezed his hand.

“Not what?” he asked softly, giving him an encouraging smile. 

“You’re not freaked out about my scars?” He blushed. It wasn’t often Aire was body conscious. He hadn’t been worried about how his body appeared to anyone since he was nineteen years old. He had accepted its appearance and expected other people to do the same. For the most part, his scars had received very few comments and nearly all of those had been positive, more born of curiosity than anything else. Certainly no one he had ever slept with had been disgusted or run screaming from the room. But this was different. This was Enjolras and now there were scars that hadn’t been given to him by someone else.

Enjolras looked confused.

“Why would your scars freak me out? I’ve seen them before.” He looked genuinely mystified and Aire was sorry to have brought the subject up. He sighed, looking away but keeping his palms pressed over Enjolras’s warm hand, the sensation keeping him grounded.

“Not these ones,” he muttered, not daring to meet Enjolras’s eyes. He heard the exhale of understanding and waited for Enjolras to pull away. Enjolras moved, but instead of leaning away he rose to his knees, his body moving forward. This time it was Enjolras’s arms around his shoulders, his body pressed up against Aire’s, wrapping him up tightly.

“Do they bother you?” Enjolras’s voice was soft in his ear.

“No,” It was the truth. They might be self –inflicted but they would fade and disappear. They were just one more thing. Enjolras just hugged him tighter. Then he pulled back, grasping Aire by the shoulders, looking sincerely into his eyes. Aire swallowed, a familiar tug in his chest rising.

“Then please accept this as official confirmation that I don’t give a fuck about your scars.”

Enjolras ran his thumbs across Aire’s collar bone, sweeping his hands up his neck before cupping his face. He glanced up at Aire, a small knot of apprehension in his stomach. He looked for permission to continue and was gratified to see Aire’s peaceful and trusting gaze in return. Ever so gently, he tilted Aire’s head to the side before pressing his lips to his throat, then again on his jawline. Aire trembled beneath his touch.

“We’re getting good at this,” Enjolras gasped into his skin. “This whole communication lark –” He pulled Aire’s t-shirt up over his head, before casting it across the room and returning his attentions to Aire’s mouth, hands ghosting over his skin, pulling him closer. 

“I used to hate your conversations,” Aire found his voice, his own hands negotiating Enjolras out of his pyjama top. “But we’ll definitely be having more if they lead to this,” he growled, unable to stay still any longer, rolling on top of Enjolras, perfect Enjolras who submitted to him immediately, welcoming his touch.

He rolled his hips, enjoying the way Enjolras’s eyes closed, the way the man groaned beneath him. Now he pressed kisses down his throat, now he ran his tongue across that delicious collar bone, relishing every move, every sound. He could feel Enjolras hard beneath him.

He felt an old, familiar heat in his gut and couldn’t help but grin. He had missed this. He loved this. 

The rest of their clothes were swiftly removed. Hands and lips moved, seeking and finding. Aire drank in the scent of Enjolras’s skin, running fingers through his air, pinning him to the mattress with his hips. 

There would be time later to do this properly, to fuck Enjolras the way he wanted to fuck him, the way he deserved to be fucked, but right now there was no way he was moving, no way he was going to stop. Nothing would induce him to leave this bed, to rummage through luggage, so instead he kissed down Enjolras’s chest. He paused to suckle at each nipple, making Enjolras giggle with the sensitivity of it all. It was a delightful sound, one he hadn’t heard in far too long. He marked Enjolras with purple by his hip bone, enjoying how Enjolras responded beneath him.

He licked slowly, lazily, up Enjolras’s cock before taking him into his mouth. Enjolras shuddered before knotting his hands into Aire’s curls. Oh god, he had missed this. He missed the sounds, he missed the movement. He had missed Enjolras so, so much.

Enjolras was practically mewling, his back arched away from the mattress as he fought the urge to fuck into Aire’s mouth. He released his grip on Enjolras’s waist, silently giving him permission. He relaxed his jaw as Enjolras lost all control.

Enjolras was lost in the sensation of the wet heat of Aire’s mouth. His fingers grasped in Aire’s curls, hoping to tether himself, ground himself somehow so that he wouldn’t float away.

“God, your mouth!” he gasped, pressing back into the pillow, unable to keep his body still. “Christ, fuck, Aire!” He continued to whisper words, his mouth just as beyond any sense of control as the rest of him.

And then Aire did that thing, that thing that he did, that he knew Enjolras loved; he hummed. The vibration of the hum sang right through him and Enjolras could have cried right there and then. He felt his orgasm build, a tight knot of pleasure in his gut. He let out a whimper. He was so damn close.

“Please,” he begged, though what he was begging for he honestly couldn’t have told you.

With a final cry, he came, Aire continuing to suck him through his orgasm, his hands holding him firmly, a comforting presence. He relaxed back against the mattress, boneless and sated.

Aire didn’t move immediately. He stayed where he was, gently resting his head against Enjolras’s abdomen. Enjolras could feel him breathing, gasping for breath. He stroked his hand through Aire’s curls, twisting them round his fingers.

“Give me a minute,” Aire’s voice resonated right through him where the side of his face was pressed against Enjolras’s belly. “Just give me a minute. Then I’ll find that last bottle of lube in the bottom of my bag.” Aire lifted his head to look up at Enjolras, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Then I’m going to fuck you so hard they’ll be able to hear you in Cork.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title has been appropriated from the brick; "A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complimentary colours"


	11. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In their little Irish bubble, it was far too easy to lose track of time. The days ran into each other and they became used to living without phones or laptops or any kind of connection to the outside world."
> 
> They can't stay in Ireland forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nope, nothing bad in this chapter - enjoy!

_Dear Gran & Grandad,_   
_Enjolras and I made it to New York! Don’t worry, it’s not as nice as Sheffield…_

In their little Irish bubble, it was far too easy to lose track of time. The days ran into each other and they became used to living without phones or laptops or any kind of connection to the outside world. They existed quite happily in Breen’s Place, boiling water on the AGA for tea, taking baths instead of showers, and occasionally popping down to the village to get supplies.

“I suppose I really should turn on my phone, check that everyone else is still functioning in the real world.” R was lying on his back, the bedsheet wrapped round his waist, one arm cast across his eyes. Everything about his current position suggested that he had no intention of moving ever again. That was fine by Enjolras. He had just returned from the bathroom and paused in the doorway to observe his Aire, smiling fondly.

No one had yet talked about ‘what next’. They both knew they would have to leave Breen’s at some point and move on, though move where Enjolras didn’t like to think. Would they return to Europe, perhaps rejoin Breen for the remainder of the Congregavit event? Or would they go back to London?

Enjolras was beginning to feel the prickles of homesickness in the sense that he no longer had a home. There was nowhere to go back to. All his belongings that hadn’t been shipped with them were currently in storage. He didn’t even have his own bed. Somewhere in the back of his head that bothered him. Travelling was all well and good, but it was nice to return home.

Aire moved then, shifting his arm from his face so that he could blink up at Enjolras.

“All right up there? You’re thinking awfully loudly.” He cracked a tired grin which Enjolras couldn’t help but return.

“I was thinking about what’s going to happen when we leave here.” He moved forward the few steps to the bed before dropping down next to Aire.

“It occurred to me that I don’t exactly have a home to go to.” He shrugged at Aire’s perplexed expression. “I don’t mind. I was just thinking, that’s all.” He ran a hand up the side of Aire’s face and into his curls. Aire leaned into the touch.

“Do you want to leave?” It was an honest question, with no hidden tone underneath it and Enjolras smiled. 

“I don’t know. I’d like somewhere with electricity and a shower. Baths are all very well and good but they’re not very quick. And candles have a propensity for dripping wax everywhere.” He kept his tone light. He didn’t mind Breen’s Place, in fact he was very fond of it. But he didn’t want to stay here for the winter.

Aire paused for a moment, apparently lost in thought, before he moved forward into a sitting position, close enough to place a small kiss on Enjolras’s nose.

“Let’s have a think, then. And while we’re thinking, we’ll have a walk into town. Good idea?” Enjolras rolled his eyes, but his face wouldn’t obey him and smiled broadly nonetheless.

“Good idea,” he agreed.

+

“Well fuck me sideways!” 

Aire’s tone was low but not low enough and Enjolras was fairly certain both the baristas heard his muttered oath as they giggled amongst themselves at the counter.

They had chosen the spot next to the plug socket so that Aire could charge his phone and check his emails. Aire’s phone had, moments before, sputtered into life and was now chiming merrily to indicate a number of messages and emails. Enjolras looked up at him quizzically.

“Do you know what day it is?” Aire looked up at him, eyes bright. Enjolras pursed his lips.

“Saturday?”

In all honesty, Enjolras had only guessed Saturday because of the newspapers on offer in the coffee shop. He had long since given up keeping track of the days of the week. His own days were marked by doodles on a noticeboard. Aire let out a frustrated snort.

“Yes, it’s Saturday. But it’s also 3rd September.” He looked expectantly at Enjolras, as though waiting for a flicker of recognition. Enjolras felt a knot develop in his guts. This was obviously important to Aire but he had absolutely no idea what it could possibly be. He hadn’t even realised that they had entered September until just now. Slowly and regretfully he shook his head.

“I know your birthday isn’t until the end of the month,” he offered in mitigation. R rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“It’s the day we met. Nine years ago today,” and here he checked the time, “I’d known you for two hours and thirty-nine minutes.”

“You remember what time we met?” Enjolras frowned, dragging his own memory back nine years, back to an itchy school uniform, a stuffy classroom and a skinny boy with messy black curls. Back in the present, Aire waved his hands impatiently.

“An approximation. You were slightly late. The register had been called but they were still allocating lockers, therefore it was about 9:13am. Give or take.” Enjolras shook his head incredulously, but he reached forward to squeeze Aire’s hand.

“Nine years. Where did the time go?”

+

Later that afternoon, Aire interrupted Enjolras’s reading by flopping down on the sofa. The September afternoon had turned uncharacteristically chilly and the fire had already been lit.

“Were you serious about wanting to leave?” Enjolras put his book down to give Aire his full attention. He noted that while Aire appeared to be relaxed, there was something tense about his shoulders.

“Only in the context of both of us going somewhere else together,” he clarified. Aire nodded. Enjolras waited patiently, giving Aire the chance to vocalise whatever was on his mind.

“Cosette wants me to go to New York. She said there’s no rush, that she understands my health and private life come first at the moment. But she wants to see me as soon as I feel able to travel.”

Enjolras considered for a moment.

“Am I invited?” He wasn’t sure he was ready to let Aire out of his sight just yet, however unhealthy and co-dependent that might appear to everyone else.

“Of course.” There was no hesitation to Aire’s voice. Even if Enjolras wasn’t invited, he was now because Aire wanted him to be there.

“Then whenever you want to go, we’ll go.” Like he was ever going to give any other answer.

+

It didn’t take long to pack up the house; not all of their stuff had been shipped to Ireland. A lot of it had been returned to the UK to be put into storage with everything else.

Enjolras had enquired whether Breen was ok for the house to be left empty while he was away. Once Aire had stopped laughing and picked himself up off the floor he explained to a rather irate Enjolras that Breen didn’t live here on a full time basis.

“He’s like me,” he said kindly, reaching out to rest a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder in a conciliatory gesture. “He needs his space sometimes, to escape. So he comes out here for a number of weeks in the year. He doesn’t live here, Enjolras. He’d freeze to death in winter.” Enjolras had sulked for a little while longer, but in the end he succumbed to Aire’s increasingly bizarre attempts to get him to smile.

+

Enjolras’s eyes had nearly fallen out of his head when they were issued with boarding passes for First Class. He turned to Aire to clarify because surely there had to be some mistake. Surely they couldn’t possibly be flying First Class to New York?

“Now don’t start,” Aire cut him off. “I know what you’re thinking, but I for one believe we have earned a few creature comforts and if that means travelling First Class then so be it.” And that, apparently, was the end of the discussion.

Enjolras had to admit that, while it was grossly expensive, it had been a brilliant experience and a million times more comfortable than travelling Economy. He had flown to Florida in his second year at Uni and had been horribly air sick. Luckily Combeferre had agreed to swap with him so he could take the aisle seat, making his bolt for the bathroom that little bit easier. Now he had a whole section to himself along with a seat that turned into a decidedly comfortable bed. There were worse ways to spend eight hours.

They were met on arrival by a driver with a limousine who manhandled their suitcases into the boot before smoothly driving them into the city. Enjolras was glued to the window, ignoring the easy chat between Aire and the driver. He had never actually been to New York and, while he had seen plenty of pictures as well as films set in its famous streets, nothing could prepare him for the size, the noise, the assault on the senses. His eyes were like saucers by the time they were dropped off at the hotel.

The hotel was something else entirely. Enjolras didn’t want to know the room rate as they checked in, keeping his attentions elsewhere in the lobby which, incidentally, was about the size of one of his lecture theatres at Uni.

The concierge showed them to their suite - not their room - their _suite_. They had a whole sitting room area in addition to the bedroom. There was an overly large four-poster bed covered in those pointless cushions he knew Aire absolutely abhorred. Enjolras poked his head inside the bathroom. The bath could easily have accommodated six people and the shower looked like a TARDIS complete with complicated control panel.

He walked back through the suite to the sitting area where Aire had deposited himself into the one of the armchairs, rubbing his eyes with his hands. He looked exhausted.

“Why is it, whenever we get the chance to be decadent in a hotel room, someone always has to make dinner plans.” It was evidently a rhetorical question, one that Enjolras didn’t have the answer to. When he didn’t reply, Aire looked up at him, attempting a weak smile.

“Cosette has invited us to dinner. And by invited I actually mean instructed. There will be a car to pick us up at 7:30pm.” He resumed the rubbing of his eyes.

“Honestly, have none of you people heard of room service?” Aire muttered petulantly. Enjolras couldn’t stop grinning. He moved to stand behind Aire, slipping his hands across his shoulders and rubbing at the knots he found there. 

“I’m sure we have plenty of time to be decadent before we have to meet Cosette,” he whispered before gently biting down on Aire’s earlobe. Aire moaned, leaning back to rest his head against Enjolras’s chest.

“You have about ten seconds to get on the bed,” he warned.

“Or what?” Enjolras chuckled, his grip tightening on Aire’s shoulders.

“Or I put you there myself.” Aire’s voice was reduced to a dark purr that ran right down Enjolras’s spine. He leaned down to press a kiss to his neck.

“Sounds like fun.”

+

When they met up with Cosette that night they weren’t necessarily rested but they were certainly more relaxed and bright-eyed.

Enjolras had been slightly nervous about this, Éponine’s threats from six weeks ago ringing loudly in his ears. He need not have worried. Cosette swept him into a hug, pressing a delicate kiss to his cheek and welcoming him with a genuine smile. She spoke quietly with Aire for a moment before instructing them both to sit.

It was an easy meal with no forced or difficult conversation and gradually Enjolras began to relax. He did notice that Aire stuck to water but made no comment.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she said after the main course had been cleared and they were perusing the dessert menu. Aire raised an eyebrow at her but made no other sign of disapproval. “But I just wanted to say that if you need anything, if there’s anything we can do to prevent a repeat of what happened in Venice then we’ll happily accommodate it.” She raised her eyes from the menu to look at both of them with a very gentle yet serious face.

“That goes for both of you.”

Conversation swiftly returned to more pleasant matters but Enjolras found he felt slightly better, as though a weight had lifted from his chest.

+

The following day, Aire went to see Cosette by himself. Enjolras didn’t mind; he knew Aire had business to discuss. He promised Aire that it was fine, that he understood and that he was more than capable of amusing himself in this luxurious hotel for a few hours while Aire went off to discuss work.

As it happened, he spent most of the morning reading by the swimming pool. He was surprised when Aire sought him out, having completely lost track of the time. He looked up from his book and smiled broadly.

“Good meeting?” He held out his arms and Aire scrambled to join him on the recliner. Aire hummed against his chest, his voice vibrating through Enjolras in a decidedly pleasant manner.

“Cosette said I can go back to England whenever I’m ready. No more travelling for now.” Enjolras ran his fingers through Aire’s curls, almost petting him, half expecting the man to purr.

“We could buy a house, if you wanted.” He looked up to see how this idea was received. Enjolras didn’t pause in his ministrations but Aire could see that lovely lower lip protruding slightly more than usual, a sure sign of Enjolras deep in thought.

“A house would be nice. But I’d settle for a front door with a key and at least one room with a bed that we could call ours,” he said at last. Aire smiled into Enjolras’s chest. In that moment he couldn’t be any more content.

+

Of course, they couldn’t go to New York without visiting a few sights. 

First stop had been the Statue of Liberty and the Ellis Island Immigration Museum, followed by a tour of the Statue right up to the Crown. The view from the top over Manhattan had been magnificent. Enjolras had squeezed Aire’s hand, feeling as though he was on top of the world at that moment.

Their humour shifted quite considerably later that day as they visited the site of Ground Zero. They stood together in silence, watching the fountains which marked the locations of those two absent buildings. Each fountain was edged with dark stone and engraved with the names of the dead. They left Lower Manhattan in a decidedly sombre mood.

Somehow they found themselves in Times Square. They could easily see why it was sometimes referred to as the Centre of the Universe. Surely all roads led here.

+

Enjolras was enthralled. There was something about cities, especially busy cities, that ran through his veins. He loved the rhythm of the city and there was plenty of that around them now as they stood in Times Square. Aire’s hand was tight in his, a reassuring warmth, and subconsciously Enjolras tightened his grip as his mind turned to a question, a very important question that he had been considering for some time. 

He would have liked to have had a ring or something, anything – any kind of representation to show that he had thought about this, that he was serious, that this wasn’t just a whim. He wanted Aire to marry him. He wanted to be tied to this man for the rest of his days and nothing was going to change that. He had to know right now, in that perfect moment in this perfect city; he needed to know if Aire felt the same. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

+

Aire was feeling dizzy. Enjolras was pressed warm against him as they stood in that headache of a city. So much life teemed about them. He wanted to stand still and savour this moment, always. He let out a sudden gasp of a laugh as an idea settled into his mind. It was an idea that had popped up more than once but that he had always, until that moment, dismissed out of turn. He looked at Enjolras, really looked at him. This wonderful man who, for some unfathomable reason, stood beside him despite everything Aire had done to sabotage their relationship. 

Two months ago he had been at rock bottom; locked in his mind, his body in pain and feeling appallingly alone. But he had never been alone, not really. He hadn’t been alone since he was fifteen years old. Right then, right at that moment, he knew what he wanted.

+

“Marry me?”

Two mouths moved at the same moment. Two words shaped themselves into the autumnal air of the city in two different voices. Two pairs of eyes stared in shock and surprise before two laughs rang out.

“Are you -?”

“Do you -?”

They laughed again, lost in their own little happy world.

“Shall we?”

“Yes.”

One word. One word to make two hearts beat extra fast in one rhythm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, yes they did :)
> 
> many, many thank you's to epeolatry for getting me to this point, and to all of you for your brilliant, concise and thoroughly enjoyable comments!


	12. Their Existence Is Not Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Waking the next morning was a glorious thing. Aire looked across to where Enjolras lay beside him; the face of his fiancé was relaxed and at peace. Unable to resist, he reached forward to trace a finger across his cheek. Enjolras stirred at his touch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nope, nothing bad here, either.

Waking the next morning was a glorious thing. Aire looked across to where Enjolras lay beside him; the face of his fiancé was relaxed and at peace. Unable to resist, he reached forward to trace a finger across his cheek. Enjolras stirred at his touch.

“Good morning,” he murmured. Enjolras blinked up at him before smiling sleepily.

“Good morning.” Enjolras rolled slightly, stretching his shoulders before snuggling further down into the duvet. Aire thought his heart might burst.

“We’re getting married,” and he, too, snuggled down beside him so that their faces were level. He pressed forward to kiss those soft, inviting lips.

Enjolras curled towards him, bringing his hands up to frame Aire’s face, his fingers pressing lightly against his cheeks. He giggled slightly into the kiss and, heavens above, if that wasn’t the most magical sound Aire had ever heard in his life! He committed it to memory for safekeeping.

“When?” Enjolras looked up at him with clear blue eyes, full of trust and light and peace.

“This is America. Whenever you like. Today, tomorrow, next week, next month…” He trailed off, placing kisses down Enjolras’s throat.

Enjolras closed his eyes, a soft whimper passing his lips. But then his eyes opened and he slowly shifted back, pulling himself up slightly into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard with his whole body facing towards Aire. He was still smiling but his head crooked to one side in a questioning gesture.

“Today? You’d want to get married today?”

The tone had changed; the atmosphere in the room became more sober, more serious. This was an important conversation. Aire sat up, too, in an effort to show Enjolras just how serious he could be.

Yesterday had not been entirely serious, not after the question had been asked. The trip back to the hotel had been the least serious he had ever been in his life; it had been filled with laughter and sweet caresses and a tremendous amount of control because nobody wanted to be arrested on the Subway for indecency.

They had practically skipped through the lobby, drawing the attention of more than one amused onlooker, before a ridiculously heated trip in the lift to their floor and then, finally, they had stumbled through the door of their suite. At some point they had remembered that they needed to eat and Aire had great pleasure in ordering room service.

But now it was morning.

“I don’t know about today. But certainly we could get married soon. If that’s what you want?” He wasn’t sure why he felt nervous. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous about this. If he married Enjolras tomorrow or in another nine years it would be one and the same to him. As long as Enjolras was by his side it didn’t much matter.

“What do you want, Enjolras?” He asked the question lightly, clasping his hand gently.

+

It struck Enjolras that Aire seemed to have a knack for asking him important questions when he was half awake. He wondered if Aire did it on purpose, as though to catch him out, as if Enjolras was more likely to give an honest answer when befuddled with sleep.

“Well, obviously I want to marry you, you daft thing,” he chuckled, playfully pushing Aire in an effort to both lighten the atmosphere and buy himself a little time.

He had never really considered himself to be the marrying type. Two years ago he had barely been the Long Term Relationship type, much less someone who might actually enter matrimony. But this was different; this he was sure about. 

Weddings, if he thought about them at all, conjured up images of large-scale events in lavish locations packed with members of the family you hardly knew and couldn’t stand. They involved months, if not years of planning, not to mention the stress and the organisation and the cost. There would be rows. He shuddered.

“If we married here, it would be just us,” he said quietly. He saw a cloud pass over Aire’s face at his words.

“We can go home, if you want. Have the wedding back in the UK with our families,” Aire looked unsure, as though he was trying to riddle out what Enjolras wanted, trying to say the right thing. Enjolras quirked a smile at him, rubbing his arm reassuringly.

“I don’t want a big wedding, Aire. I don’t want to spend thousands of pounds on one day just for the sake of putting on a show. I’d much rather we –” Aire interrupted him then, as though a lightbulb had gone on above his head.

“Have a quiet ceremony?” Aire was smiling with him now, the colour returning to his cheeks.

“Yes. And then we could have a little gathering of friends to celebrate when we get back.”

Aire leaned forward to kiss him gently.

“Sounds perfect to me.”

+

Later that morning, when they finally decided that they really should get out of bed and do something productive with the day, Aire flicked open the laptop while Enjolras took a shower. Twenty minutes on google gave him all the information he needed.

It turned out that, while they couldn’t necessarily get married today, they could, theoretically at least, get married tomorrow. They would need to register for a marriage licence and then twenty-four hours later they would be eligible for the ceremony. Simple as that. It was terrifying.

Slightly less terrifying was the email requesting his presence back at Cosette’s office. He sighed. Real life was never far away.

He snapped the laptop shut just as Enjolras appeared, a towel slung low on his hips, his curls dripping wet.

“Would you be heartbroken if I went to have a meeting with Cosette?” Enjolras rubbed a towel through his hair, sending droplets of water in all directions.

“No, not at all.” He grinned, slouching over to where Aire sat at the desk, wrapping himself around him deliberately. Aire grumbled lightly at the dampness of his skin.

“I want to ask her to be a witness,” he whispered, before pressing a kiss to Enjolras’s wrist. Enjolras chuckled. He laughed so readily these days. Aire would never tire of hearing it.

“Sounds good to me. You’ve been doing some research?” He motioned towards the laptop. Aire nodded his head, thoughtfully, the knowledge burning a hole in his brain.

“All you need is twenty-four hours. Then the City Clerk says a few magic words and whoosh! You’re married.” He tugged a hand through his curls, an edge almost of hysteria to his voice while his eyes remained fixed on the top of the desk. Enjolras crouched down beside him, resting his hands against Aire’s thighs to both steady himself and to comfort Aire’s racing heart and mind.

“Listen to me, darling,” he whispered softly, reaching forward to touch his cheek, guiding his face towards him.

“If this is too fast, if you’re not sure…” Aire caught his hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I am sure. But I’d like to talk to Cosette first. Then can we talk about it when I get back?” He looked up at Enjolras, his expressive brown eyes looking ever so slightly lost and terrified that Enjolras couldn’t help but smile in spite of himself.

“Of course, my love.”

+

“I’m going to marry Enjolras.”

Cosette didn’t make any move at first, except that her eyes widened, then after a beat she sprang from her chair, moving around her desk at a terrifying speed. For a moment Aire braced himself, half expecting her to slap him even though she had never raised a hand to him in all their time as friends.

Instead she grabbed him into a hug, one that nearly broke his ribs. She gasped into his ear words that he could barely make out, though the sentiment was clear enough.

“Who popped the question then?” She beamed when she finally pulled away, her eyes bright and edged with tears. Aire gulped a laugh, falling back into a chair as though his legs were no longer willing to support him.

“We asked each other. Yesterday, when we were at Times Square. We said yes.” And now he smiled, the burning heat of the memory pulling his cheeks up almost against his will. How could he not smile as though all his Christmases had come at once? He was going to marry Enjolras.

Cosette clapped her hands together like a delighted child. He had never seen her like this. She had always been so calm and collected, so efficient. Now she was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. She was thrilled for them and said so, most enthusiastically. When he asked her to be a witness it started off another round of hugs and nearly-tears, her whole face lit up like sunshine.

“Oh, I’ll have to find something special to wear,” she winked at him playfully. He blushed, explaining that it wasn’t really like that. They were just going to go to the City Clerk’s office and queue.

“We just want something quiet. No fuss, no row-inducing plans or bank-breaking locations. Just us. Married.” He scratched the back of his neck, his shoulders hunched awkwardly, expecting some sort of argument from his friend. She stared back at him with clear eyes and barely suppressed amusement.

“Well, be that as it may, monsieur, I can assure you that I will be wearing the nicest dress there,” she spoke firmly, her lips twitching and her eyes twinkling. “I suggest you go out and buy both you and Enjolras a gorgeous pair of suits. Let’s really give the City Clerk’s office something to talk about.” 

Cosette moved back round behind her desk, before gasping and once again clapping her hands together as a thought struck her.

“Éponine is flying out in two weeks’ time. You should wait for her! She could be another witness.”

Aire chewed his lip thoughtfully. That was a good idea. Cosette and Éponine as witnesses would be nice; a representation of otherwise absent friends. He nodded his agreement. Obviously he would need to talk to Enjolras first, but yeah. Two weeks sounded about right. Two weeks he could deal with.

+

Two weeks had flown by ridiculously quickly. One thing they had learnt in those two weeks was that there was no such thing as a “simple” wedding. Even if their only intention was to queue at the City Clerk’s office and have a quick ceremony, there were still plenty of things to sort out such as rings and suits.

They had decided not to tell anyone back home what they were planning to do. It would be a surprise when they flew back, each wearing the other’s ring. Aire had been surprised how strongly he felt about the wedding band. It gave him a thrill right to his guts at the thought of placing such a visual representation of their commitment on Enjolras’s finger. Even more so, he looked forward to receiving one from Enjolras. He had never really thought of himself as possessive before now, but luckily Enjolras seemed to find it endearing.

They had decided to get the licence a few days before just so that they had it. They didn’t want to leave it to the day before in case something happened. What could possibly happen, they weren’t quite sure, but that didn’t mean they wanted to tempt fate. The papers had been passed to Cosette for safe keeping at her request. Both Enjolras and Aire were more than happy with this arrangement, both somewhat relieved at the removal of responsibility for the most important papers they currently held.

But now it was the big day and Aire was buttoning up his waistcoat and trying not to think about how amazing Enjolras looked in his suit. If he thought about Enjolras in his suit then there was a strong possibility they might not actually make it to the Clerk’s Office.

At Cosette’s suggestion, they had checked out of the hotel and were staying in one of the JVJ apartments a couple of blocks away from Central Park. It was a pleasant apartment, more homely and comfortable than a hotel room and both he and Enjolras had enjoyed staying there. In between ‘wedding stuff’ they had managed to fit in a fair amount of sight-seeing, visiting galleries and museums and going on tours and trips to the theatre.

He straightened his cravat in the mirror, pulling a face at the ostentatious item of clothing that he was wearing at Enjolras’s insistence, before calling out to the man in question.

“Éponine and Cosette are going to be here in ten minutes, Enjolras!” He turned, grinning broadly as Enjolras poked his head out of the bedroom door, his eyes bright with amusement.

Enjolras was a vision. Aire let out a half moan, half whimper as he strode confidently into the room, a wicked smirk upon his face.

“Will I do?” he asked teasingly, his eyes lowered in an almost demure fashion. Aire reached forward to rub a thumb across his jawline, moving reverently across his skin.

“You are the most beautiful person ever placed upon this planet and I have no idea how I ever convinced you to marry me,” he muttered in an almost broken voice. Enjolras looked at him with a soft smile, his hands snaking round his waist. He leaned forward to whisper in Aire’s ear.

“If you feel you need to convince me further…” A cough rang out behind them.

“Then you can bloody well wait, the pair of you.” Éponine leant against the door frame, arms folded in a challenging stance but with a broad grin upon her face. Enjolras momentarily felt bereft as Aire released him to bounce over to her. He watched, feeling a tightness in his chest, as Aire picked her up to spin her round.

Éponine; the last time he had seen her had been in that hospital in Venice. They had spoken on the phone since then, of course, but mostly just in passing before he handed the phone to Aire. She had flown into New York late last night. 

Aire finally released her and she made her way over towards him. She stood about a foot away from him, hand on her hip, head on one side.

“I know I said I was going to crucify you,” she started, her mouth twisting beneath her smile. “But I guess that would be unfair on your wedding day.” She pulled him into a tight hug, “Congratulations,” she whispered into his ear, and it was sincere. No threat, no further promises on an early death should anything happen. Just warm, hearty congratulations.

“Right, let’s get this show on the road.”

+

Enjolras nearly choked when he saw the sleek limousine waiting for them at the curb. Both he and Aire turned to Éponine in shock. She outright laughed at them. Did they actually think they were going to be taking a yellow cab to their wedding? She was still laughing as the limo pulled away.

Cosette was not in the limo. Aire frowned suspiciously at Éponine who merely chuckled and looked out of the window.

“She had some stuff to do and said she’d meet us there,” she shrugged and smiled innocently back at Aire’s narrowed eyes. Enjolras squeezed his hand, reassuringly. It would be fine.

+

“Fucking hell, Ep!”

It wasn’t the Clerk’s Office. It wasn’t even close to being the Clerk’s Office. The limo had pulled up outside an unbelievably smart hotel and the door was being opened by a uniformed footman who saluted them as they exited the limo. Enjolras realised far too late that both he and Aire had been set up.

He looked to Aire for any kind of answer but he looked just as shocked and lost as Enjolras felt. He held on tightly to the man’s hand as they were led up the stairs to the doors to be welcomed by a beaming concierge who guided them in. Éponine followed, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“You didn’t honestly think you would be allowed to sneak off and get married in a Clerk’s Office did you? You have met Cosette, right?” Éponine pulled both of them into an awkward hug.

“This is our wedding present to you,” she said, stepping back and speaking with a fierce edge to her voice, as though her throat had suddenly become rather tight. “Just fucking enjoy yourselves, ok?” 

She motioned towards the door which a member of the hotel staff was waiting to open for them.

+

The room was full of people.

It was an impossible room full of sound and laughter that all stopped when he and Aire walked in. All the faces turned to them and Enjolras held his breath. An impossible room full of impossible people. In that moment he was sure the whole world could hear his heartbeat.

Suddenly, someone started clapping. It was taken up by another, and then another, until all these people who couldn’t possibly be here were applauding and cheering and stamping their feet.

The first face he found was Combeferre. Those steady eyes were blinking at him warmly, his presence all at once calming as he rested his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Cosette said you needed a Best Man.” Oh he had missed Combeferre’s voice! He could barely choke out his answer before his attention was taken by a strawberry-blonde missile that had just hurled itself into his fiancé.

“I will never forgive you, not ever!” Jehan’s sweet voice cut through the air, sending everyone into peals of laughter, including Aire who held him tight, whispering apologies into his hair. Enjolras jumped as Courfeyrac clapped him on the back, laughing heartily, calling out his own congratulations. Enjolras was floating. 

His hand was at his mouth in disbelief as he looked further round the room. Aire was still trying to persuade Jehan to let go.

Bahorel was loitering nearby, a wolfish grin on his face. He pulled Enjolras into a bone-crushing hug. When he was released, Feuilly shook his hand, his eyes sparkling with laughter. From his side, he heard Bahorel’s growling voice.

“If it wasn’t your wedding day, I swear I’d punch you for trying to pull this crap without us!” He heard Aire’s bark of laughter in response, somewhat muted as he was savagely hugged by his mate. Enjolras felt distinctly light-headed; he needed to sit down.

Suddenly Joly was by his side. He fussed over Enjolras, guiding him to one of the chairs.

"Come on Enjolras, you can't be sick on your wedding day!" he said, brightly. Enjolras was quite certain he was more than capable of being sick, wedding day or otherwise.

+

Aire wondered if he was dreaming. He knew Cosette and Éponine were a team not to be trifled with, but this was beyond anything he could have envisioned. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how much time and energy it must have taken to engineer this; to get all these people here at such short notice.

He was disturbed from his reverie by the arrival of Murtagh Breen, apologising loudly and profusely for being late. Without a second thought, Aire strode over to him, pulling him into a hug. Suddenly, having one of his closest friends, his oldest friend apart from Enjolras, here beside him made it all rather real. Breen initially froze at being pounced upon by one of the grooms, but relaxed after a moment, patting him warming on the shoulder.

“It’s good to see you. And might I say, you look a hell of a lot healthier than the last time.” The words were for Aire’s ears alone and he nodded in confirmation. He was a hell of a lot better.

When he turned around he spotted Jehan’s look of shock and awe at the latest arrival. Smirking, he dragged his Irish playwright friend over to his charming poet friend, eager to aquaint them with one another. Jehan’s eyes widened into saucers as Aire introduced them. His cheeks became scarlet as Aire began to praise his former flatmate’s work. 

He would have liked to have said a lot more, but he was interrupted by the sight of his grandparents waiting ever so patiently in the front row of seats. To see them brought him back to the moment, to the enormity of everything that was occurring around him. He left Breen in Jehan’s safe keeping, before wandering in a daze over to where they sat.

There were no words. They had never needed many and now there were none. He simply hugged her, unable to stop the tears from flowing. As he clung to his grandmother, he felt the reassuring warmth of his grandfather’s hand on his shoulder.

“We’re ever so proud of you, son. Ever so proud.” 

+

When finally Enjolras felt as though he could stand without falling over, he gingerly made his way to the front, pulling Aire into a tight hug and brushing the tears from his eyes.

“You can’t cry yet, my love. We’re not married yet,” he joked lightly. The Officiant cleared her throat.

“Are we about ready?” she smiled warmly, finding it impossible not to be affected by the joyous reunions taking place in front of her. Aire nodded, trying to pull himself together. Enjolras opened his mouth to confirm that he was, indeed, more than ready, when he caught sight of the door at the back opening once more.

Cosette stepped into the room, a knowing, blazing look upon her face. Behind her, looking very much as though they had recently stepped off a plane, followed Enjolras’s parents. The whole room fell silent.

"I'm so sorry we're late."

Enjolras’s legs started moving before his brain could catch up. His mother, his actual mother and his father were both standing in the same room as him for the first time in four years. He stopped about a foot away, unable to find anything remotely intelligent or pertinent to say. Then her arms were round him, pulling him close.

Enjolras wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He couldn’t remember whether or not he had told them he was travelling with Aire rather than working in London. He wasn’t entirely convinced that he had mentioned that he and Aire were back together in the first place. He wondered how the conversation with Cosette must have gone, or whether they had spoken with Éponine. But then his mother was pulling back, looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face. For a moment she didn’t say anything.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” she said at last.

Then she was gone. He turned to see her sweep Aire into a hug. Enjolras almost laughed at the priceless expression on Aire’s face, before feeling a wave of affection as he heard his mother compliment him on how well he was looking and how lovely it was to see him again.

“Son.”

He turned back around at the sound of his father’s voice. He looked older, more careworn, than Enjolras remembered. He stood awkwardly, his hands in his suit pockets, a familiar stance that Enjolras recognised all too well. After a moment, he removed one hand and held it out, inviting Enjolras to shake. Without hesitation, Enjolras took the proffered hand, as well as the token of peace that came with it.

“I understand you’ve been having adventures,” his father said, his voice attempting to sound casual but somewhat failing. Enjolras attempted a smile.

“Yeah. I, er, quit my job.” He was surprised when his father’s face broke into a smile.

“Good for you.” It was a genuine statement, one that caused something to lift inside Enjolras’s chest, but before he could say anymore the Officiant attracted his attention.

“If that’s all, perhaps we could begin?”

Aire stood at the front, somewhat amused. He had already introduced Marjorie to his grandparents and she was seated beside Aire’s grandmother, beaming at him. 

Aire held out his hand, invitingly. What else could Enjolras do? He walked purposefully across the room, his eyes fixed on Aire. He took that hand in his, drawing a deep satisfying breath. He was ready.

+

It was a perfect day. Unexpected. The opposite of what they had planned. But perfect. Enjolras reflected on how astoundingly lucky he was in his life as he unsteadily rose to his feet to make his after-dinner speech.

"I believe it is customary to thank you all for coming. The only issue I have with that particular tradition is that I don’t remember inviting you.” There was a ripple of laughter from the boys and he turned to grin at Cosette who smiled back at him unapologetically.

"I especially would like to thank my poor parents who have flown all the way from Australia to be here. I don’t doubt they will be retiring for a well-deserved sleep as soon as the speeches are over." He could see them smiling at him from where they sat between Cosette and Aire’s grandparents, looking exhausted but happy. 

After a short pause, he cleared his throat to begin again.

"If you told me a year ago that today I would be in New York marrying Aire I'd have referred you to Joly for some antipsychotics. But, as usual, this amazing, incredible man has strolled ever so casually into my life and turned everything on its head.” He paused, looking round the room, nodding his head, half to himself. “Which is good. It's what I want.”

He picked up his glass, gesturing to Aire’s grandparents.

“I would like to thank Jim and Elsa. Thank you so much for everything you have done for me – for us – over the years. You welcomed me in to your home, quite literally, and I promise to you I will do my level best to make him as happy with me as I am with him for the rest of his days.” 

Finally, he turned to the man at his side who was sitting, looking down. From where he stood he could see that the tips of Aire’s ears had turned a burning pink. He pressed on regardless.

“To Aire. My Aire. I love you. I always have. And I always will.” He paused, to take a shaky breath, aware that the room had fallen completely silent. He closed his eyes, praying that he would be able to finish, yet not entirely minding that emotion threatened to overtake him.

“I can't wait to see where we go next on this great adventure together.” He was gratified when Aire looked up at him. His face was serene but his eyes burned. It took all his strength to return his gaze to the rest of the room. 

“Thank you,” He raised his glass in a toast.

His ears were filled with clapping and cheering. He gratefully sank back into his chair, his hand reaching for Aire’s under the table cloth, relishing its warmth and safety. In that moment he honestly believed he would never get over the way Aire looked right then.

+

Aire was floating on a strange cloud of sensation, oddly detached from the events around him. There was only Enjolras. As his husband – and wasn’t that the best word in the world – as his _husband_ moved to sit down, he took a deep breath. His turn.

"Nine years ago, a skinny blond kid marched into a classroom in Surrey and my life changed for ever.” He paused to take a sip of water, aware of the way everyone was staring at him.

“I've been very lucky in my life.” He paused, looking round the room, considering his next words.

“I know a lot of people look at me and think it's been one long tragedy but they're wrong.” He paused again, almost daring someone to contradict him.

“I've known true love, true friendship and true loyalty. I've had some amazing experiences. I've met some wonderful people and most of you are in this room right now.” He ran a hand across his forehead, reaching out for the words that he knew were there somewhere. He saw Éponine smile at him in encouragement and he took heart.

“I need to thank Cosette and Éponine, even if you are terrifyingly crafty, because I know I speak for my husband and I -" 

He was interrupted by a deafening cheer that didn’t stop for what felt like quite a long time. He grinned, unable to do anything else, reaching out to take his husband’s hand. As he stood there, letting it all wash over him, he reflected that he would probably never tire of using that word. In fact, he intended to use it as often as possible. He didn’t think that word would ever get old. Judging by the way Enjolras was staring at him, his husband was in full agreement. 

"My husband and I have had the most perfect day and it would never have happened without you.” He raised his glass to salute the room before continuing.

“Second, I need to thank my grandparents. Just for being you. For everything. Thank you so much. You dragged me onwards and kept me going and I'll never be able to thank you enough.

“To all of you. For being there for me. For kicking my arse when I needed it. For your continuous and unending support and loyalty. For not killing me when I do unbelievably stupid things. For being your perfect selves.” Oh god, he could feel it. He was going to cry. He just needed to get through the last bit. Just a little more. He took a deep, steadying breath, determined to finish.

“Finally. To Enjolras.” He turned, pulling both of those wonderful hands into his. 

“I know we've said a lot to each other, I know we've made it harder than it needed to be. But I also know that you love me. And that I love you. I've been very lucky in my life because in the dark I can usually see your light leading me home. Home is where you are. I may run sometimes but I promise, I swear, I'll always come home to you."

Enjolras rose to his feet to join him. Their mutually murmured “I love you” was lost in the deafening applause.

+

Cosette plucked their phones from their hands as though confiscating them from naughty schoolboys.

“Éponine knows what flight you’re on when you come back. She’ll return these to you then.” She dropped them neatly into her handbag before looking back at them severely. “No phones on your honeymoon!”

She leaned forward to kiss them both on the cheek before stepping back.

“I still can’t believe you guys,” Aire murmured, mostly to himself, but Enjolras nodded in agreement. As if having everyone fly out to see them get married hadn’t been gift enough, they had then been presented with plane tickets and reservations to Norway.

“Everyone chipped in. It’s from all of us!” Bossuet had informed them, pressing his hands together with glee.

“Enjoy the Ice Hotel!”

“Be careful you don’t catch cold!”

“Have fun in that Yurt!”

“Don’t forget to take loads of photos – I hear the Northern Lights are amazing!”

Each of their friends called out various instructions as they made their way through the airport towards the check in desk. 

“Most important of all,” it was Combeferre speaking now, peering at them through his glasses with a tone somewhere between Gandalf and Dumbledore, “have fun, and come back in one piece.”

Enjolras looked at Aire with an amused look on his face. Then he glanced down at their joined hands, enjoying the way Aire’s wedding ring caught the lights of the airport.

“Ready?” Aire grinned nodding. 

They turned around one last time for a final wave before disappearing from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with me on this. All your lovely comments really light up my day. 
> 
> Believe it or not, you can actually get married that easily in New York. It's a waltz in the park compared to the hoops you have to jump through in the UK!
> 
> A quick note about Norway.  
> Enjolras spoke about wanting to go to Scandanavia when they were on their romantic night away in "Unhooking the Stars". It seemed only fair, after everything he's been through recently, that he get to go somewhere he has always wanted to visit.
> 
> I'm not quite done with this verse yet, either.


	13. Love Can't Fix The Hole They Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "R was in his studio, pretending to be immersed in his work. The fact that he didn’t have an audience to this particular piece of artistic theatre was precisely the reason he was definitely focused on the canvas in front of him and most certainly not glancing obsessively at the clock every thirty seconds or so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for accidents, injuries and hospitals
> 
> The sequence of events occurs after five years of marriage.

R was in his studio, pretending to be immersed in his work. The fact that he didn’t have an audience to this particular piece of artistic theatre was precisely the reason he was definitely focused on the canvas in front of him and most certainly not glancing obsessively at the clock every thirty seconds or so.

It had been Enjolras who had insisted placing a clock in the studio. He had allowed Aire to choose which clock he would like adorning the wall but that had been his only concession in the matter. Sometimes R just needed reminding of the hour of the day, especially if he was caught up in the creative process.

Enjolras was under the illusion that the haphazard set of studio buildings down the field from their house was Aire’s favourite part of their home. He was wrong, though. Aire loved the buildings, their bespoke design put together to R’s specific requirements, all light and glass and sliding doors, affording uninterrupted views of the rolling Sussex country side in all directions. But they weren’t his favourite part.

The main house had taken eighteen months to build, Enjolras ensuring all the timbers and materials had been ethically and responsibly sourced. R had taken some convincing about the grass roof but he’d had no objection to the solar panels. The results had been worth the wait and the stress and the two years surfing on people’s sofa’s, clogging up their spare rooms and the last ten months spent in a caravan on site, overseeing the final process.

The downstairs was a series of rooms that flowed into each other, a maze of shelves in lieu of walls and not an internal door in sight. An impressive staircase of reclaimed wood led up stairs to a mezzanine, natural light pouring in from a series of skylights. Here were Enjolras’s study, a couple of guest rooms and a bathroom. At the end of the mezzanine was a small vestibule area containing a number of wardrobes, a chaise longue and a few other personal items. From here, a final spiral staircase took them into the roof of the building and Aire’s favourite room of all. Their bedroom.

It was a private, intensely intimate space considering three of the four walls were glass. It contained a large bed, graced with muslin hangings draped from the ceiling. There was a large set of shelves acting as an interior wall, separating the main space from a smaller area containing a large roll top bath, a nod to happy Irish memories.

Everything about this room was slightly decadent; the plush carpet, the underfloor heating in the bathroom, the lights set into the walls, the invisible music system that responded to voice commands. But none of that was what made in Aire’s favourite room. It was seeing Enjolras at his happiest, his most relaxed, his most uninhibited in this space. There were no plug sockets. There was a strict “no phones” policy. Up here, it was just them in the whole, wide world.

The house had been completed a month before Aire had been called away on business. He had barely begun to live there, to learn to love living there. The worst thing had been leaving Enjolras behind, to make it their home without him.

He remembered standing in yet another airport, saying goodbye. There were far too many goodbyes these days. As they approached thirty both had demanding careers and it was impossible to just drop everything and travel together as they once had. He knew that Enjolras would have come with him if he could.

He had stood with Enjolras, their foreheads pressed together, neither wanting to be the first to break apart. They had been married for five years and he still couldn’t bear to let this wonderful man out of his sight.

“You’ll be fine, love, it’s only two weeks.” Enjolras had murmured, sounding far calmer than he felt. A tightness around his eyes gave him away.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, for his own benefit as well as his husband’s. Enjolras had smiled, kissing him softly before Aire had forced his feet to move, to board that plane. He shivered with the memory. It had been the last trip he had made as part of JVJ.

+

Enjolras was late. Aire absolutely hated it; hated the anxiety it produced. By now he should be used to it. He should accept, if not expect Enjolras to be late, given that the Firm was based an hour away in Dorking. It had been a compromising move so that he and his friends could set up their dream firm of solicitors, even though the Prouvaires refused to leave London and Bahorel was now in Tunbridge Wells. They had made it work and Aire respected Enjolras’s achievement in that regard.

But he still hated it when Enjolras was late. He set his jaw, determined not to check his phone, knowing full well that it was on loud anyway. Finally, he heard the crunch of tyres on the track leading up to the house. He placed his paintbrush down carefully, going to wipe his hands on an old rag before stepping out of the studio, cutting across the grass in the direction of the garage.

It was May and the evening was warm and light. He let out a sigh of relief at seeing Enjolras step out of the car. The man looked up, smiling as he spotted Aire waiting for him. Then there was a hug and a small kiss of greeting and they both walked towards the house, Enjolras sighing meaningless nothings about traffic and the day he’d had.

Once they were inside, once Enjolras was seated at the breakfast bar with a cup of green tea and Aire was already poking through the cupboards looking for something to construct into an acceptable dinner, he moved on to more serious topics of conversation.

“I’m thinking of going back to full time at the end of the month.” Enjolras said conversationally, as if it wasn’t a big deal. Aire repressed the desire to slam a cupboard door in response, choosing instead to sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. Lots of questions filtered through his mind.

_Are you sure?_

_Are you ready to go back to full time?_

_What does Joly have to say about it?_

_What do Courfeyrac and Bahorel have to say about it?_

None of those were the correct response and he knew it. He turned around to look at Enjolras, trying to arrange his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression.

“Oh right? Well I can’t say I won’t miss you being home at a decent hour…” and he forced his cheeks into a smile and was rewarded by a shy smile in return but Enjolras’s shoulders were still tense. R tugged a hand through his hair, trying to find something non-confrontational yet sincere to say. Finally he let out a huff of breath.

“If it’s what you want to do, then of course I’m right behind you all the way.”

Enjolras reached out to him, to take his hand, to squeeze it reassuringly.

“I promise, if at the end of the first week you don’t think I’m up to it, then I’ll reduce my hours again. But I would like to try.”

Well, fuck. Since when had both of them become so good at compromise? Enjolras was going to use Aire as a barometer on this occasion, trust his judgment for once. That was new. When Aire smiled this time it was genuine and he could see it reflected in Enjolras’s eyes.

Later that night, wrapped up in their duvet, Enjolras had whispered one more request into R’s ear. He was a sneaky bastard and no mistake. He knew Aire was at his most vulnerable when he was about to fall asleep and was definitely more likely to say yes to a request when he was lost in the safety of their bedroom.

“I got an email this afternoon,” he murmured, running his fingers over the soft skin of R’s back before pressing a light kiss to his shoulder. “It’s an invitation to our school reunion.”

Aire tensed. He couldn’t help it. A school reunion; the thought of it made him shiver. But he already knew what Enjolras was about to say next and he closed his eyes in preparation.

“I’d really like to go.”

Of course he would. Of course Enjolras wanted to go to the school reunion. Aire rolled over to look him in the eye.

“Enjolras, no. No way,” he said firmly, as though there was even half a chance that would be the final word on the subject. Enjolras sighed in frustration.

“But why?” And he looked genuinely confused, as though he couldn’t possibly imagine why Aire didn’t want to go back to that building, to that place and to those memories.

“Because.” And that was a crap answer and he knew damn well Enjolras wasn’t going to let him get away with it. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to give himself the clarity to articulate the many and varied reasons why he never wanted to set foot in Surrey, much less that school, ever again if it could possibly be avoided.

“Because those people had nothing to say to me when I was fifteen; what on earth makes you think I have anything to say to them now that I’m thirty?” Both he and Enjolras knew he wasn’t even beginning to scratch the surface of the whys of this particular issue, but it would do for now. Enjolras pouted. It was so cute, so childish an action for a man who was starting to go a little grey at the temples that Aire smiled in spite of himself.

“Combeferre’s going,” he muttered sulkily and Aire really did smile now, rolling his eyes as he prepared to turn over and settle back down on the pillow.

“Go with Combeferre then.” He shrugged lightly, considering the matter closed.

“I don’t want to go with Combeferre. I want to go with you.” There was silence and just for a moment, Aire thought he might have won. But of course that wasn’t the end of the matter.

“I really think it might help.” A small, vulnerable voice in the darkness and something extraordinarily painful tugged in Aire’s chest. He rolled back over, studying Enjolras’s face in the shadows of the dark. After a moment, he gathered the man to him, almost crushing him to his chest.

“Do you mean that?” He tried to keep his voice even, but it was hard to suppress the emotion in his words. He felt Enjolras nod in his arms.

“I really do. I need this, Aire. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

Aire closed his eyes. Ok, they’d go to the damned reunion.

+

_Seven months earlier_

He had only been out of the country for four days. He was in Sønderborg with four other JVJ artists as part of a themed tour. So far it had all gone quite well; the setting up, the soiree, the circulation. He was an old pro at this.

He’d rung home twice; once to confirm his safe arrival, and once the following day just to tell his daft husband how much he missed him, and also to confirm his return flight details. Enjolras had laughed at him, confirming that he would be at the airport to meet him as always. Enjolras also told him he would be staying with Courfeyrac and Jehan for a few days up in London so if he needed anything he was to call there or the office. Their parting words, as always, had been _I miss you, I know, I love you, love you too_. Such careless words.

He’d known. He’d known as soon as Cosette stepped through the door, looking pale and efficient, her face closed and her eyes black. He’d sunk to his knees then, fearing the worst. There was only one reason why Cosette would travel nearly four thousand miles to visit him. It meant a phone call wouldn’t be enough, could never be enough, to deliver this sort of news.

“He’s not dead, I promise you, he’s not dead,” she had told him over and over, holding him tight, stroking his hair as he clung to her, unable to stop the tears, not giving a fuck for anyone else in the room.

+

No one was entirely sure how it had happened. One moment all three of them had been at the top of the escalator, waiting to exit the nearly deserted Tube station after a decidedly pleasant evening out for dinner and a play. The next minute it had just been Jehan and Courfeyrac standing alone, Enjolras nowhere in sight. There had been short pause while the two tried to work out where their third had gone before the screaming started at the bottom of the escalator. Enjolras had plummeted all the way down.

Courfeyrac had gone with him in the ambulance, leaving it to Jehan to contact Combeferre because really, what else could he do? The only person with Aire’s contact details was Enjolras. Besides, it was entirely possible that Enjolras would be sitting up in bed with nothing but a bump on the head and a bruised ego. No one wanted to scare the daylights out of R for no good reason.

Combeferre knew it was serious when the doctor came out asking to speak to Enjolras’s husband. It meant that Enjolras either wasn’t awake or was not coherent enough to explain that Aire was abroad.

He was intensely surprised when the doctor agreed to allow him to see Enjolras. The man was out cold on the trolley in the small cubical. He drew the curtain around them, shutting off the rest of the busy A&E department. One whole side of his face was bruised and his usually gold hair was matted with dried blood. At some point he had been intubated.

The doctor explained that Enjolras needed a CT scan to ascertain any damage to the head. At the moment he was being kept sedated after suffering a seizure on arrival, after which he had become combative. Combeferre processed all this information before excusing himself to make a quick phone call. He rang Cosette.

+

Enjolras had been allowed to wake up after the CT scan revealed nothing too untoward apart from a certain amount of swelling, a small dark patch which probably was ‘nothing to worry about’ and what would undoubtedly be a nasty bruise. There was certainly nothing there to have caused him to black out, nothing more sinister to cause the seizure. No tumor, was the unspoken words and Combeferre nodded, grateful.

When Enjolras opened his eyes, Combeferre had never been so relieved. He reached forward to squeeze the man’s hand.

“Hey you,” he said, his voice unusually awash with emotion. “You gave us all quite the scare there, mate.”

+

The first thing Enjolras was really aware of was how bright the lights were, far too bright for him to cope with, even with his eyes closed. Then he became aware of an annoying buzzing as though someone had just plugged the jack into a set of speakers, and the sounds of his surroundings began to filter through.

“Enjolras?”

It wasn’t the voice he wanted to hear. In fact, he didn’t know that voice at all. He forced his eyes open, trying to get a grip on reality.

Suddenly his brain was far too full. Far too full of darkness and thoughts that didn’t make any sense and the overwhelming sensation that nothing would ever be all right ever again.

“Aire,” he croaked, looking wildly round the room. He needed Aire. Didn’t they understand that? He needed to know he was ok. Oh god, was he even still alive?

“Enjolras, it’s ok. You just need to calm down. You’re in hospital.” It was a man speaking to him, a tall man that looked vaguely familiar but that wasn’t right, he had never seen this man before in his life. He certainly wasn’t a teacher. Or he might be. He looked like a teacher. He was tall, leaning over Enjolras, his bespectacled eyes looking at him full of concern.

“Is he still alive? Tell me he’s still alive!” He tried to shout, but his throat was unbelievably sore. Why was his throat sore? The man looked at him full of confusion.

“Is who alive?” he asked gently, far too gently. Not urgently enough. Enjolras started to fight with the bed clothes, with the instruments he was hooked up to. Instantly people were upon him, trying to restrain him, calm him down.

“Just tell me he’s not dead!” he sobbed, collapsing back against the bed, filled with despair. Because of course he was dead. That was why they wouldn’t tell him.

+

Combeferre stared down at his friend, lying back hopelessly against the pillows, sobbing harshly. The staff looked to him for confirmation that this wasn’t usual behavior.

“Enjolras,” he tried again. “Please. Tell me. Who do you think is dead?”

His friend looked up at him with impossibly sad, broken eyes.

“Grantaire.” He croaked, completely exhausted. “His father. He did it. He had a knife. I tried to save him, I swear, I did,” and then he covered his face with his hands and cried, a guttural sound that echoed through the department. Combeferre’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, before reaching out gently to touch his friend’s hand. The man recoiled from him.

“Enjolras,” he said quietly, his voice calm and low. “Please believe me. Aire is fine. He’s not dead. I promise you.” Enjolras peeked out between his fingers, looking up at him with wide, tear-stained eyes.

“Really?” It was such a childish sound it almost broke Combeferre’s heart.

“Enjolras. Can you tell me how old you are?” Enjolras sniffed, looking at him in confusion as though trying to work out how that could possibly be important.

“Sixteen,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so this is a two-part chapter. I initially intended it to be one long chapter but it just kept getting longer and longer. I'll hopefully be able to post the rest tomorrow.
> 
> Title taken from Condemned to Rock & Roll by Manic Street Preachers
> 
> Yeah, erm... sorry?


	14. These Memories Lose Their Meaning When I Think of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The twenty-four hours after the accident had been unbelievably stressful. Enjolras had been subject to a number of further tests to try and judge the severity of the amnesia, before being moved up to a ward. In the meantime he had become increasingly distressed, belligerent and bad tempered as his demands for proof that Aire was alive and well were met with evasion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for hospitals

The twenty-four hours after the accident had been unbelievably stressful. Enjolras had been subject to a number of further tests to try and judge the severity of the amnesia, before being moved up to a ward. In the meantime he had become increasingly distressed, belligerent and bad tempered as his demands for proof that Aire was alive and well were met with evasion.

Combeferre couldn’t even begin to wonder how he could possibly explain to Enjolras that Aire was in Denmark, or that his parents were in Australia.

Every so often he caught Enjolras looking at him strangely, as though the man was trying to remember something. He saw echoes of his friend there, hidden behind the confusion, but if he tried to press him about it he was met with a brick wall.

Finally, when the doctors had left them alone, giving them a short reprieve from the poking and prodding and awkward questions, Enjolras had looked at him with a strange expression on his face. Combeferre drew the curtain round the bed to give them some privacy before sitting down on the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and surveying Enjolras intently.

“Do you have any questions?” Enjolras made a face at the question, scrunching up his eyes and mouth like one of Combeferre’s Year Ten students, as if it was the dumbest thing he had ever heard.

“What do you think?” He muttered sarcastically and Combeferre found himself smiling. Attitude he knew how to deal with. He sat back in the chair, forcing his shoulders to relax, trying to convince his racing brain that the man in front of him wasn’t his best friend at all, it was just one more bratty kid who was acting out for attention. And now he had Combeferre’s attention in spades.

He waited patiently and of course Enjolras cracked first.

“So you’re a friend are you? You don’t say much.” He cast a suspicious, no, cautious eye over him.

“No, I don’t. You do all the talking, usually,” Ferre replied evenly. Enjolras snorted. He held up his hands in front of him, surveying them.

“How old am I, really? And was I in a coma or something?” He twisted his mouth into a doubtful expression.

“You’re twenty-nine. No, you haven’t been in a coma. You sustained a Traumatic Brain Injury which resulted in retrograde amnesia.” He paused, wondering how much more he should say. He wasn’t an expert on the matter. This was just what he had picked up from the staff and from Google since the accident had occurred. Enjolras looked at him as though he was speaking a foreign language.

“It sounds scarier than it is,” he added for good measure. Enjolras nodded absently before lapsing into another silence.

+

Enjolras was desperately trying to make sense of everything going on inside his head. It constantly felt as though everything was just on the tip of his tongue, in the corner of his eye. If he tried to focus on anything it just disappeared, teasingly close but achingly out of grasp.

This man beside him was like that. He felt familiar yet strange. The way he spoke, certain mannerisms caused him to remember everything and nothing. It was very frustrating.

His parents, he had been told, were in Australia. What were they doing there? When had they left? _Why_ had they left? And why had he stayed?

This Combeferre spoke of Aire as though they knew each other. He had said that he was ok but he wasn’t here right now. So where did Aire fit in to his life? How did he fit in? And what was he like? If he was twenty-nine that meant R was now thirty years old. He tried to imagine what that would be like. He wondered if there had been a party. If there had been a party had Enjolras been invited? He sank back into the pillow, closing his eyes, wishing he could make sense of the world around him.

+

Combeferre felt unbridled relief when, at just gone eight o’clock that evening, his phone rang and it was Aire announcing that he had just touched down at Gatwick. Two hours later, he and Cosette entered the hospital.

He went down to the reception area to meet them and to warn them. He needed Aire to understand what he was about to walk into.

The man’s skin was a terrible grey colour when he hurried through the doors into the entrance hall of the hospital, followed closely by Cosette who looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. He had been surprised when R wrapped his arms around him, clinging to him.

“Tell me he’s ok. Tell me he’s alive,” he had whispered desperately into Ferre’s ear. He was shaking. Combeferre did his best to reassure him whilst pushing down the strange echo of those words.

“You need to understand. He doesn’t remember.” Combeferre was haunted by the look of terror in Aire’s eyes. He wanted to wash it away with good news.

“If it makes you feel any better at all, he’s been shouting for you since the moment he regained consciousness.”

From the look on R’s face, it didn’t make him feel better one little bit.

+

Aire didn’t think he would ever recover from the way Enjolras had looked at him when he had entered the ward. He had been on such a rollercoaster, from the shock of Cosette turning up, to finding out that Enjolras had fallen down a fucking escalator of all things, to getting on a plane. He had only briefly returned to his hotel room because he needed his passport otherwise he sincerely wouldn’t have bothered.

But now he was here and he could see for himself that physically Enjolras seemed fine, if a little pale and very bruised. At first he didn’t notice that part of his hair had been shaved away where the man had been stitched up. He had been far too preoccupied by the empty look of confusion on his husband’s face. That look scared him the most.

“It’s me,” he said stupidly. Because what else could he say? Enjolras had just stared at him.

+

Later, much later, Enjolras had confessed that he didn’t know what to think when Aire had first appeared. He had been expecting a pale, thin teenager with dark eyes and hunched shoulders. The man in front of him had been a stranger. He was too tall, too tanned, too old. He was healthy and toned, well built from years of fighting and dancing. Only one thing told Enjolras that it was Aire who stood before him. It was his eyes. It was the eyes that convinced him in the end.

+

Aire was living a nightmare, but for all that was going on around him, he felt strangely calm. He called his grandparents in Sheffield to tell them about the accident but refused to entertain the idea of them coming down. It would do no good at the moment; they should stay where they were. He promised to call on them if he needed anything.

His next phone call had been slightly more complex. As it rang and rang he wondered what time it was in Australia. He had plenty of time to mull over whether he wanted Enjolras’s mother or father to answer the phone first. In the end, it was Marjorie who sang a greeting down the phone. In that moment, R hated himself for ruining her day.

There was never a question. She listened to what he had to say with grave patience. She asked what number he could be reached on, what hospital they were in and then said that she would be in touch with their flight details. Aire didn’t blame them one bit. It had been bad enough being in Denmark. He couldn’t imagine trying to fight his way across the world.

When he went back to the ward, Enjolras was uncharacteristically quiet. He observed everything going on around him as a trapped animal might observe the creature that stalked it. Aire had convinced Combeferre to go home, to take a shower and get some rest. The poor man was exhausted to the bone. Before he had left he had pressed a key into Aire’s hand.

“My house is yours. My food, my sofa, anything. Come and go as you wish.” He stared at R, a challenging look that was impossible to escape from. This was not up for negotiation. R thanked him and assured him he would take him up on his hospitality.

They had mostly sat in silence. Enjolras didn’t look as though he wanted to be cross-examined right now and Aire didn’t have the energy to persevere. It was enough that they were both breathing in the same room.

He had been told to go home by one of the matrons. Visiting hours were over and patients needed their rest, especially those with head injuries. He had promised Enjolras that he would return at the crack of dawn the next day, before leaning forward to kiss him goodbye. It was an automatic action, one that had been done countless times over the past five years of marriage. It was only when Enjolras paused, freezing momentarily, before returning the kiss, that R’s eyes flew open, withdrawing sharply.

He scanned Enjolras’s face, wondering what the hell the man must be thinking. It was killing him, waiting for Enjolras to say something.

“We’re still together then.” He asked cautiously. “We’re not just friends?” And there was something else in his eyes now, something that hadn’t been there before. It took R a moment to realise what it was. It was hope.

“Yes,” he breathed. “We’re together.”

Enjolras looked at his hand then, reaching out to take it, to twist the wedding ring on his finger.

“Do I have one of those?” He’d asked, still unsure. R had nodded, not trusting his voice. Enjolras chewed his bottom lip, a gesture so familiar it made R’s heart ache.

“Where is it?” R had fetched it for him out of the locker by his bed. It had been removed from his finger by one of the nurses when he had gone for a scan. R held it out to Enjolras for inspection, amazed that his hands could be so steady at a moment like this. 

He just looked at it with wide eyes before slowly holding out his hand in invitation. R slipped it on his finger. 

“You love me,” he said quietly.

“Of course,” came the automatic reply. Enjolras looked up at him but there was no questioning look in his eyes, just a strange calm, as if that was the best news he’d heard in his whole life.

“Good. That’s good. I can work with that.”

+

Enjolras remained in hospital under observation for another two days. Tests were run, blood samples were taken, scans were performed. Aire came and went, sometimes bringing Combeferre for evening visiting hours. 

The other friends stayed away at Aire’s request, only because he didn’t want to overwhelm Enjolras. It was hard enough to accept that he was missing the last fourteen years of his life without adding to his frustration with visits from people he didn’t recognise.

However, a Lamarque rose plant had been sent to him along with a card signed by everyone containing their best wishes.

“It’s a climber,” whistled R, reading the information leaflet that Feuilly and Jehan had included. “We can trail it round the porch.”

Enjolras had smiled at him, wondering if the porch in his head was the same as the porch R was referring to. 

He was finally discharged from hospital, once the medical staff were happy that there weren’t any underlying injuries; no more dark spots on his scans, no signs of further seizures. The doctors remained hopeful that the amnesia was temporary, that Enjolras would recover fully given time. In the meantime he was signed off from work for at least six weeks and banned from driving for at least six months. 

“Could be worse,” Aire muttered as they got into a taxi. Enjolras glared at him. Even if he couldn’t remember where he lived or where he worked, he knew that not being allowed to drive was going to be a torment. 

They spent the night at Combeferre’s house, eating Chinese food and chatting. They kept to mostly neutral topics, allowing Enjolras to lead the conversation so that he wasn’t left out. Even though Enjolras had just spent the past week in bed, he could feel his eyelids drooping as the clock struck eight in the evening. He bid them both good night, retiring to Combeferre’s spare room and leaving the two men to chat.

He was under no illusions that the conversation would be about him as soon as the bedroom door was closed but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

+

The next morning Combeferre drove them down to their home in Sussex. As the car turned up the dusty single-track road, Aire watched Enjolras’s face with fascination. For his part, Enjolras’s eyes were glued to the window, watching everything that passed.

When they drew up to the house, Enjolras smiled. He turned to Aire, sitting beside him on the back seat, reaching out to clasp his hand.

“I remember this. I dreamt about it last night. I’m so glad it’s real.” It was evident that he was delighted.

Enjolras pottered about the house, exploring the rooms, climbing the stairs, wandering down the garden. He admired the view, complimented the studio buildings and smiled at everything. Aire stood in the kitchen, eyes following him everywhere, straining his head when he disappeared from view.

“Are you going to be ok?” Combeferre asked him cautiously, brow furrowed. Aire tugged a hand through his hair, setting the mugs down on the side in an attempt to appear casual.

“Fuck knows, mate. I hope so.”

Combeferre nodded, as though he hoped so too.

+

When Combeferre had gone, they had sat up reading books and listening to music, attempting a normal evening. But Aire’s eyes watched his husband far more than his book, and with good reason. He hadn’t turned a page in over five minutes. Evidently the man needed some more precious sleep.

“Come on,” he said at last, closing his own book without marking the page. Enjolras started, looking up in confusion.

“Let’s get you set up in a bed, shall we?” He held out his hand which Enjolras graciously accepted. He led them both up the stairs to the mezzanine before pausing, awkwardly. He looked back at Enjolras’s expectant face.

At Combeferre’s, R had been happy to kip on the sofa. He and Ferre had sat up late into the night, chatting extensively and he had not wanted to disturb Enjolras by going to bed at that late hour. Now he felt unsure and uncertain. 

“Erm, did you want to sleep in our room? Or would you like me to set you up in a guest room? Or I could take a guest room, I don’t mind which…” Enjolras frowned at his words.

“Is our marriage in trouble?” The bluntness of the question caught R totally off guard. He felt as though someone, as though Enjolras, had just punched him hard in the chest. Something must have shown in his face, because Enjolras started towards him.

“Fuck no!” he said at last, finding his voice. It came out quite loudly but hopefully it got the message across.

“No, not at all. What the hell made you ask that?” A wave of dizzying nausea ran through him. Enjolras shrugged his shoulders, glancing down at the carpet.

“I couldn’t be sure. You didn’t come to bed last night. You weren’t there when I woke up. I wasn’t wearing our wedding ring and now you’re being funny about sharing a bed.” He looked up at Aire as if it was the most logical conclusion to reach, the only conclusion to reach given the evidence.

“I mean, we would normally share a bed, yes?” He didn’t look so sure now. Aire let out a long, slow breath, reaching out to Enjolras, a welcoming but still hesitant gesture. Enjolras accepted it, stepping close and folding himself into R’s arms. R was gratified to feel him sigh against his chest.

“Christ, Enjolras,” he muttered into the man’s hair, what was left of it. He never wanted to let him go, ever. Eventually they broke apart enough so that he could provide a clear answer.

“Yes, we normally share a bed. Last night I was up late with Ferre, I didn’t want to disturb you. The medical staff took off your ring, presumably so it didn’t get lost while they treated you, or so it wouldn’t fuck up their really expensive scanning equipment.” He took a deep breath, trying to slow his words down. Enjolras waited patiently for him to continue.

“I was in Denmark on business. Cosette, the lady with the blonde hair? I work with her. She came to get me when you had your accident.” He let go of Enjolras briefly just to rub his face, to try and scrub that memory from his brain.

“I’d been gone less than a week. I had no idea you were going to be throwing yourself down a fucking escalator…”

“I DID NOT THROW MYSELF DOWN AN ESCALATOR.”

They both stared at each other in surprise as silence returned to the house. Aire was grateful they didn’t have any neighbours.

Enjolras suddenly flushed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, making to step away from Aire, but Aire wouldn’t let him. He caught him just in time, pulling him towards him rather than let him back away.

“No, no, it’s ok.” He wrapped his arms around him again, kissing his forehead before resting his chin on the man’s shoulder. He could feel Enjolras shaking against him, feel his erratic heart beating through his t-shirt.

“I was being flippant. It’s a defence mechanism I never grew out of.” He felt Enjolras snort against his neck, a huff of air that told him he was forgiven.

Later, when they were upstairs in their sanctuary, when they were both wrapped up in a light cotton sheet and Aire had been talked into leaving the blinds open so that Enjolras could see out into the darkening sky, they spoke some more.

Enjolras asked him to tell him about his job; what exciting career had R carved for himself if he was taken off to Denmark ‘for business’.

“I’m an artist,” he answered, giving the simplest and most boring answer he could come up with. Explaining his career would mean talking about JVJ. Talking about JVJ meant talking about America. Talking about America would mean talking about leaving and he wasn’t prepared to have that conversation just yet.

Enjolras’s face had been hilarious. He had pressed his lips together, raising his eyebrows. He nodded his head as he tried to find something to say.

“Oh,” he had said, obviously trying yet failing to keep his voice neutral. “That sounds… interesting.” He scowled when R started to laugh.

“I fail to see what’s funny,” he pouted and, oh gosh, that just made Aire laugh even harder. He reached forward to brush a hand against his cheek.

“My dear Enjolras,” he said at last, his laughter subsiding. “One day I’m going to remind you of what you just said and when I do, I promise you are going to blush as red as your famous coat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so I know I upset a few people yesterday. But we're working on it, I promise! I always do!
> 
> The Lamarque rose is a thing. And it's WHITE! fabulous.
> 
> This is actually longer than I thought it was going to be. 14 chapters was a very poor estimate. There's at least two if not three more...
> 
> Chapter title is taken from In My Life - the Beatles song, not the LM one.


	15. A Glimpse in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aire tried to focus round the bedroom with sleep-filled eyes. There was something that had woken him up and he was trying to work out what it was while dealing with the fact that the sun was pouring in through the windows."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything bad in this chapter, although we do talk about Enjolras's injury a little so if you're squeamish? Better safe than sorry...

“Enjolras?”

Aire tried to focus round the bedroom with sleep-filled eyes. There was something that had woken him up and he was trying to work out what it was while dealing with the fact that the sun was pouring in through the windows. Right, no blinds. They wouldn’t be doing that again.

He rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingertips trying to get the damn things to focus. From the bathroom he could hear a strange sound. It was like someone sharpening a blade with a stone. He stumbled from the bed, legs propelling him towards the noise.

“Oh dear god!”

Enjolras didn’t turn around. He was standing in front of the mirror, his reflection meeting Aire’s now thoroughly wide-open eyes. His left arm was held above his head, clutching chunks of golden curls which he was savaging with scissors.

“Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, as though he wasn’t doing anything particularly unusual. “Did you sleep ok?”

Aire stared at him dumbly, before allowing his gaze to fall to the gold strewn across the tiles at Enjolras’s feet.

“Aire?” concern crinkled Enjolras’s eyes when he didn’t say anything, and finally he turned around. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are you cutting your hair?” Aire finally managed to speak, the words rasping almost unwillingly past his voice box. Enjolras shrugged, a light look on his face.

“Well, the hospital already took a great chunk out of it to stitch me up. I thought I’d even it out so it doesn’t look so odd.” And with that, he turned back to the mirror. Aire moved suddenly, reaching out to prevent Enjolras from taking up the scissors again.

“Stop, please.” Oh god, his hair. Enjolras had such lovely hair. It was one of Aire’s favourite things, to gently run his fingers through the curls, knotting his fingers in them. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, R, don’t be daft!” Enjolras laughed at him. “It’ll grow back.”

Aire pressed his mouth shut firmly. Of course, he knew it would grow back but that really wasn’t the point. He couldn’t vocalise what the actual point was at this moment, so he settled for gently negotiating the scissors out of Enjolras’s fingers.

“Let me. I’ll be neater,” he murmured. He wasn’t a hair dresser by any means, but it would be better than this overgrown teenager haphazardly murdering his hair. Enjolras would thank him in the long run, once he was back to his senses.

Mercifully, Enjolras had actually used the hair scissors, rather than a set of kitchen scissors, so it could have been worse. He surveyed what had already happened and gently began to clip the hair into some sort of order.

He stood behind Enjolras, almost tight to his back, gently manipulating his head with a soft press of his fingers, Enjolras obediently submitting beneath his touch. From here, he was presented with an unrestricted view of the ugly head wound, complete with stitches and glue, running down the back of Enjolras’s head. He studied it critically for a moment before deliberately returning his attentions to the matter at hand.

They had been told the stitches would be in for at least another eight to ten days or so. The wound was to be kept clean. For the first few days in hospital Enjolras had not been permitted to wash his hair but now he could as long as he was gentle and didn’t rub. The doctor had also been very explicit about not using shampoo or conditioner.

He sighed as more hair filtered to the floor. Enjolras was supposed to be resting. Aire wasn’t sure this counted, somehow, but then Enjolras had never done resting very well.

He gently turned Enjolras around by the shoulders so that he could do the sides, making sure they were even. He could feel those blue eyes burning up at him.

“You’re really upset, aren’t you?” Enjolras reached out a hand, to fit it on Aire’s cheek. “It will grow back.” He repeated softly, kindly. Aire attempted a small smile. 

“I know,” he assured him, before patting his shoulder. “You’re all set. At least, until you can get to an actual barbers.” Enjolras turned to look back in the mirror, smiling.

“Much better, thanks.”

Aire left him to have a quick shower, returning their room and flopping down on the bed. He heard the shower turn on.

“No shampoo!” he shouted a reminder. Enjolras grumbled some sort of response.

He scrubbed one hand absently over the side of his face, recognising a strange hollow sensation in his chest. He missed Enjolras.

The guy was just on the other side of the wall and, _oh my god was he singing?_ Enjolras was singing in the shower. He couldn’t remember Enjolras ever having sung in the shower before. This wasn’t his Enjolras. This was some short-haired, singing-in-the-shower, pouting, innocent version of the man he knew, the man he loved. 

The singing stopped; the shower shut off and Aire made a considerable effort to pull himself together.

+

Something was wrong. Aire came back to consciousness, alone again in the bed, though bizarrely fully clothed. A glance at the windows told him it was early afternoon. He was still bone tired. But the thing he was most keenly aware of, what had settled so uncomfortably upon him, was that he was alone.

He padded down the stairs to the mezzanine, glancing over the side, a wave of relief washing through him as he spotted Enjolras sitting at the breakfast bar. He was bent over some papers, chewing pensively at the end of a biro. As Aire moved down the mezzanine, heading for the stairs but never once taking his eyes off the man below, he could see he was frowning slightly. A hand reached up as though to pull through his hair in a familiar gesture, except that now that hair was far too short.

Enjolras looked up, a beaming smile spreading across his face as Aire approached. Aire tried to remember the last time Enjolras had smiled that like. It wasn’t so much the emotion behind it, the broadness, or how genuinely pleased he obviously was to see Aire. It was more than that. It was a light smile, as though nothing wore upon his soul. Aire hadn’t realised there was anything wrong with Enjolras’s smile until that moment.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said reproachfully. As he got close enough, he leant forward to press a gentle kiss against his forehead, still black, purple, and fading green with bruising. He felt Enjolras lean into his touch.

“I wasn’t tired. And you looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you by reading or listening to music.” Aire patted his shoulder, before moving over to the fridge.

“Have you eaten?”

Aire sighed internally at his own words. These were their new conversations; reminding Enjolras to eat properly, to take his meds, to not use shampoo, to rest. Above all, to rest. Physical and cognitive rest, the doctors had said.

“I made a cheese sandwich, does that count?” He grinned impishly before hopping off the chair. He was barefoot and that was so wrong because Enjolras always wore slippers. Aire had teased him for it mercilessly. He had bought him a bubble pipe as a joke gift last Christmas and was forever threatening to invest in a rocking chair.

Enjolras studied his face for a moment, his head on one side and a small smile playing around his lips. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Aire’s waist, snuggling close.

“Would it make you happier if I went for a sleep now?”

“Yes, because otherwise I’ll have Joly chewing my ear off. And then I’ll have no choice but to let him loose on you, and don’t think I wouldn’t.” He grinned, but saw only amused confusion smiling back at him as Enjolras attempted to pretend that he knew who he was talking about.

“Yes, it would make me exceedingly happy if you went to bed,” he clarified. Enjolras’s face cleared back to the assured and relaxed smile from before. He broke away from Aire’s grip and waltzed towards the stairs.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Aire’s glance fell upon the paper on the breakfast bar. Enjolras’s scrawl was set out into a haphazard list, a fascinating glimpse into his befuddled mind. Aire read it with curiosity, the kettle and tea forgotten.

_Blue door_   
_Ivy – green. Outside?_   
_Four poster bed_   
_Fields – so many. Flat. Not here._   
_WHAT IS THE BLUE DOOR_   
_The Blonde Boy in the Painting_   
_Colourful Beach Huts – blue doors?_   
_Skulls_

Enjolras was mapping out images, things floating round his mind, desperately trying to capture them, to guess their meaning, to force them to make sense.

Sighing, he fished in his pockets for his phone. Casting a final look up to the mezzanine, he turned towards the sliding doors and exited out onto the veranda, heading down the field.

“Hello, my darling,” Jehan’s soft voice coming across the line calmed his thumping heart.

“Help me, Jehan,” he whimpered, sinking down to sit cross legged on the grass, his elbows on his knees and his face resting on his free hand. Jehan made a soothing noise down the phone to him.

“Anything you need, love. Come on. Talk to me, I’m here.”

“I don’t know this person, Jehan. He cut his hair off.” He heard the sharp intake of breath down the line. He produced a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans. 

“He’s so… god I don’t even know. He’s chirpy? But that feels like a bad thing.” Shaking hands finally managed to light the cigarette between his lips.

“His eyes are bright. I never realised before how… how much older he was with me. Fuck, does that even make sense? It’s like someone hit the reset button. He might not remember that we’re married but he’s happy that we are. Which is great, by the way. But he doesn’t remember anything else either.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment, exhaling slowly. Jehan remained silent at the other end of the line.

“Jehan, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“You’re doing to best you can. It’s going to be hard but we’re all here for you. And he will get his memory back, the doctors said it was temporary didn’t they.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact. The memories would return. Spontaneous Recovery, they said. Just needed time. And fucking rest. These doctors had evidently never met Enjolras before.

“He’s trying to remember. Oh fuck, Jehan, it’s going to come back to him. What do I do when it does?” His breath began to quicken and he abandoned the cigarette in favour of running his hand through his hair, almost enjoying the tingle in his scalp where he pulled, the sensation keeping him grounded to the grass beneath him.

“What do I do when he remembers I left him? That I kept leaving him, running away from him, from us…”

“What about when he remembers you coming back? Or your wedding day?” Jehan countered.

“What happens when he remembers Patrick? What happens when he remembers Venice? Because he will.” These were Aire’s darkest fears. These thoughts chilled him to the bone. But Jehan wasn’t having any of it. Beautiful, gentle, and above all sensible Jehan, who knew exactly what to say. 

“Then you’ll call us,” he said smoothly. “Courf will come and talk Enjolras off the ceiling and I’ll be there to scrape you off the floor.”

When Aire returned to the house, he crept up the two sets of stairs to peek into their room. Enjolras was sleeping, stretched out across the bed. Aire watched him for a moment, all sorts of things running around his mind. He felt love and loss and pain and fear. But underneath all of that was determination. They’d gotten through their past once. Surely they could do it all again.

+

At three o’clock he went upstairs to find Enjolras sitting up in bed reading quietly.

“Cognitive rest, Enjolras.” He sighed, in lieu of a greeting. Enjolras grinned sheepishly, setting the book aside.

“I need to go to the airport. Your parent’s plane gets in this evening and I said I’d pick them up.”

Aire was torn between leaving Enjolras at home alone, a sharp stab of anxiety cloying at his gut, or ignoring the doctor’s implicit instructions regarding rest and taking Enjolras with him in the car to Heathrow.

In the end he had tried to put himself in Enjolras’s shoes and decided to give him the choice. Enjolras threw back the bed clothes because of course he would go with him.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, without any heat because really, he’d be stressing all the way there otherwise.

“I can rest in the car,” he said dismissively. And that was that.

+

Enjolras automatically stepped towards his silver car that he drove to work, his legs taking him where his mind wouldn’t go. He looked confused as Aire snorted, stepping towards his trusty Renault Clio, affectionately called Vader after its black paintwork and domed shape.

“Why aren’t we taking my car?” Enjolras frowned. The silver car was his. His muscle memory told him so. Plus it was bigger than the Clio. If they were going to pick up his parents surely they should take the smarter car?

“Because, Enjolras,” and Aire rolled the name over his tongue, smirking sardonically, “I’m not allowed to drive your car. You don’t let me drive your car. I am not a named driver on the insurance. So, the Clio it is.”

He swung the door open and slotted himself into the driver’s seat. Sulkily, Enjolras slid into the passenger side.

Music blared as he turned the engine over. He muttered an apology, turning it down. Enjolras kept tight lipped. Smoothly, Aire put the car in gear and turned them down the drive.

About thirty minutes into the journey, thirty minutes of petulant silence on one side, strained silence on the other, Enjolras finally turned to him.

“Didn’t I teach you to drive?” Aire quirked a grin at that.

“Yes. Actually you did.” He checked his mirrors before changing lanes, pulling onto the motorway.

“You said, and I quote, ‘you weren’t going to run my sorry arse about for the rest of our lives’” He was rewarded by a chortle of laughter from the passenger seat.

+

Aire was under the impression that Enjolras’s parents were perpetually exhausted. Whenever he had seen them in recent years they had usually very recently stepped off a plane. Today was no exception. Marjorie had her smile in place but he recognised the tightness around her eyes, something else she had passed on to her son. Enjolras’s father, meanwhile, was towing the suitcase. While Marjorie swept her son into her arms, fussing over him, Aire shook his father-in-law’s hand.

“He insisted on coming,” He waved his arms in the air, helplessly. The last thing he needed was for the inlaws to think he had made Enjolras come. To his relief, both of them smiled at him, shaking their heads.

“Of course he did,” Marjorie said, turning a disapproving and worried look on Enjolras.

“You need to start looking after yourself.” 

Enjolras just rolled his eyes.

+

“These aren’t our wedding photos are they?” 

Aire poked his head round the book case, tea towel in hand. Enjolras was sitting cross-legged on the sofa. His parents were asleep in the guest room, dealing with the jetlag. His head was bent over a leather-bound tome of photographs he had prised off the shelf. Aire chuckled.

“No, love. These are Jehan and Courf’s photos. They asked me to be their photographer so I made a copy of their album for us. You’re in nearly all of them, anyway, since you were Master of Ceremonies.”

Jehan and Courfeyrac’s wedding day. They had been married in August, a summer wedding in the woods and yet it felt like a hundred years ago.

Enjolras had worn a sharp, black suit, looking ridiculously gorgeous and had taken his role very seriously indeed. There had been a lot of glaring that day, specifically at Éponine and Bahorel who had seemed to be suffering from a severe case of the giggles.

Courfeyrac, his easy grin still in place, no sign of nerves, waited patiently at the front for his beloved. He wore a loud pink shirt, as though he would ever be caught on his wedding day in anything else! Complete with powder blue bow tie and the most astounding set of braces you had ever seen. They had been a wedding gift from Joly and Bossuet and were covered in literary quotes in elegant script. They were for Jehan’s benefit and Courf was more than happy to sport them with pride.

And then Jehan. Feuilly had walked him down the aisle, the rusty red of his hair contrasting beautifully in the photograph against Jehan’s strawberry blonde which fell sheer and splendid down his back. He was a vision.

Enjolras ran a finger over the photographs, tracing the image of Jehan delicately. Jehan wore an ivy green wedding dress, the bodice laced up with black and white ribbons. His hair was threaded with trails of ivy, all carefully selected by Feuilly.

Aire talked him through the album, casually mentioning each friend in turn. _Oh look at Éponine, she flew in specially. Jehan was so surprised because originally she hadn’t been able to come. There’s Bahorel sneaking off because he had bought a cake as a surprise. Poor Courf and Jehan weren’t going to have one originally. There’s Joly, laughing with Bossuet. Those two should be engaged by now, they’ve been together longer than you and I and that’s saying something!_

“Jehan’s a poet?” he asked, before grinning like a child who had given the right answer in class when R nodded his confirmation. “And they got married in the woods.” He repeated it to himself, under his breath. He continued to stare at the album.

“There aren’t any of you,” he said at last. Aire leant over him to flick to the last page.

“There I am,” he said brightly, pointing to a tall curly-haired figure on the end of the group photo. He had set up the camera on a timer and then run to join before the shutter went off. Enjolras scrunched up his face, less than impressed.

“Do we have an album?”

“Do you want to know? Or would you rather try to remember first?” he asked cautiously, answering a question with a question. Because there wasn’t an official album, as such. Just a conglomeration of photographs everyone else had taken. He loved it and had no regrets. Other Enjolras hadn’t appeared to have had any regrets either. This Enjolras, he wasn’t so sure about. So much had to happen first. In order to understand their choice, to understand the whys and wherefores of their wedding, they needed a hell of a lot of context otherwise Enjolras might not understand, especially not after the spectacular display put on by the Prouvaires.

Enjolras considered for a moment before deciding to wait. Aire felt slightly guilty for the relief he felt at that.

+

It continued that way for the next couple of days. Every so often Enjolras would ask a question about their friends or his job or their life, Aire answering yes or no because that was all Enjolras wanted from him. He wanted to remember on his own, wanted the memories to return on his terms. He didn’t want Aire to spoon-feed them to him. Aire was more than happy to oblige in this, avoiding full explanations for as long as possible. He was a coward and he knew it.

Marjorie had taken him to one side quite early on in their visit. She hadn’t said anything at first, she simply studied him, those x-ray eyes seeming to strip away all the walls that were there to keep him going right now, burrowing through to everything inside. All the shock, the fear, the anxiety and the love. The love that hurt so fucking much right now.

“You’re doing so well.” And for some ridiculous reason, those four words nearly broke Aire completely. She pulled him into a tight hug, holding him as the tears began to fall.


	16. If You Tell The Truth You Don't Have To Remember Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was times like this he really resented his mind not working properly. He would dearly love to be able to read the expression that currently painted his husband’s features. He recognised some of the echoes of the boy he remembered, especially in his frown, his raised eyebrows and, on the exceptionally rare occurrences that Aire had actually smiled, in the quirk of his lips too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a little... angsty.  
> sorry, guys.

Enjolras reached for R’s hand, squeezing softly as he climbed into bed. He was met with a tired smile in return. For all his lectures and admonishments, it seemed quite clear to Enjolras that R could do with following his own advice about physical and cognitive rest.

“You look exhausted.” He reached up, brushing a hand through Aire’s curls. Aire caught his hand, bringing it to his lips.

“I’m fine, Enjolras.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Aire was a lot of things; he was strong and patient, thoughtful, careful and quite clearly devoted to Enjolras’s health and comfort. But he was most certainly not fine.

It was times like this he really resented his mind not working properly. He would dearly love to be able to read the expression that currently painted his husband’s features. He recognised some of the echoes of the boy he remembered, especially in his frown, his raised eyebrows and, on the exceptionally rare occurrences that Aire had actually smiled, in the quirk of his lips too.

It must be difficult for him, Enjolras thought, to have to look after him and have his parents-in-law around at the same time. In the three days since his parent’s arrival there had hardly been any time to themselves. At least his parents were nice enough. His father seemed to be on good form for once and his mother had always seemed to like Aire. 

His parents had fussed over him, taking over the structure of the days so that there were set periods for rest, for eating, for talking together, perhaps playing a light game of cards. Snakes and Ladders was allowed but Scrabble was strictly prohibited, as was Trivial Pursuit. The jury was still considering Cluedo.

Aire had obviously briefed them that Enjolras would prefer if they didn’t try to reminisce unless Enjolras brought something up directly himself. So nothing was spoken of the past. They talked a lot about their home in Australia, insisting that as soon as he was better they should both fly out to visit them.

“Have we not been then?” Enjolras had asked, turning to look at Aire in confusion, and unless he had been mistaken, his shoulders had set slightly awkwardly.

“We intend to. It’s just not been possible, between my work and yours.” The subject had swiftly been changed.

There was silence in the darkness after the lights were turned out. Enjolras reached out, seeking warmth, seeking skin. He traced his fingers over the hips, the waist he found beneath the sheets, turning fingers on the downy skin there, ghosting over Aire’s navel.

“Enjolras…” It was meant to be a warning but Enjolras paid it no mind, continuing his explorations. His fingers gently, carefully circled lower, until his wrist was caught, his hand pressed by another, stopping its movements.

“Apart from everything else, your parents are downstairs and no doubt still awake due to the beauty of jetlag.” Enjolras snorted in disbelief at this flimsy excuse, choosing to move, to roll into Aire’s side, inhaling the pleasant scent, before sinking his teeth into Aire’s shoulder.

“Please do not tease me because I actually want to be able to look them in the eye in the morning.” He could hear the smile in Aire’s words, the undercurrent of frustration.

“I could be silent,” Enjolras whispered suggestively. “I’m sure I could find something to occupy my mouth.”

“Fuck, Enjolras!” Aire choked quietly, shifting beside him and Enjolras saw the crack in the armour, the hole in Aire’s resolve and he took his advantage. 

He fixed his hands to Aire’s sides, pressing kisses down his chest, relishing in the soft moans from the man beneath him. He toyed with the waistband of Aire’s boxers with his teeth.

“This is not resting, Enjolras!” Aire gasped as Enjolras mouthed him through the light fabric. Enjolras smirked in the darkness, delighted with Aire’s more than clear reaction, in spite of his words of protest.

“Fuck resting, R. Fuck it. I’ll rest for the remainder of the night, I promise.”

Aire’s hands fisted in the sheets as Enjolras shuffled between his thighs, moving in the dark. Nimble fingers drew the boxers away, and Enjolras leant forward to kiss his tip. Tentatively he mouthed the head, closing his eyes. For once, the never-ending merry-go-round of images had ceased. Here and now there was only Aire.

“’Jolras,” Aire drew out the last syllable with a hiss, rolling his hips at the sensitivity of the contact. He felt a flare of confidence, flicking across the slit before taking more into his mouth, enjoying the sensation on his tongue.

He hollowed his cheeks, sucking carefully, lovingly. A series of muffled moans spurred him on. He varied his movements, almost teasing. He would be soft, then a series of harder motions, trying to take as much of Aire as he could. He wanted this so much. This felt normal, the most normal he had felt in weeks. Aire underneath him yet above him. Aire moaning his name, trying to keep silent and not being entirely successful. His warmth. His love. This was what he wanted. He hummed in pleasure, his hands tracing round to tease at the perineum. 

Aire groaned, arching off the bed, hands moving now to Enjolras’s hair, a huff of frustration at the lack of curls. Palms skimmed gently over his head, before they froze, dangerously close to the wound which he had managed to completely forget about whilst lost in far more pleasant sensation. After a momentary pause they withdrew sharply.

“Shit, Enjolras,” Aire’s voice was cracked and he was trying to move and irritation engulfed him.

“Oh, no!” Enjolras moved back, trying to avoid the clichéd popping sound. “Don’t you fucking dare.” And he surged upwards, meeting Aire’s lips with his own, hungry and yearning. He would not allow, would not permit Aire to mention anything about that right now.

He lay on top of R, pinning the man to the sheets, licking into the roof of his mouth. At some point he began to move, rolling his hips, grinding down. Aire moaned into his mouth, moving up to meet him. They moved together now, urgent and messy and it hadn’t been like this in years. Had it?

He didn’t care, he couldn’t care right now. He was still in his boxers but he clung to R, holding him down, holding himself up, holding on to the sensation of being alive.

He came with a whine, collapsing on top of R, releasing his mouth finally.

“Sweet fuck,” the other man gasped, and Enjolras felt him orgasm against his thigh. Aire continued to shake beneath him, but it was only when he raised his hand, intent on brushing brown curls aside, he realised that he, too, was shaking.

“Was that…?” He looked down at Aire’s closed eyes, the man below him visibly trying to get a grip on himself. The eyes opened, looking up at him. It was the most unguarded Enjolras had seen them since waking up in hospital.

_Was that different? Was that usual? Was that how they normally did it?_

Aire didn’t answer any of those unspoken questions. He simply craned his neck, kissing Enjolras’s slightly swollen lips. Not desperately, just lovingly. Arms wrapped round his shoulders, pulling him to Aire’s chest.

“I love you, Enjolras.” And really, that was all Enjolras needed to hear.

+

When Aire exited the shower the following morning, Enjolras had already dressed and gone downstairs. They had woken together, sharing lazy kisses. Enjolras had smiled at him again, but this time there was something more. Some little spark there, something new but familiar. For the first time in nearly two weeks, Aire was beginning to feel again.

He hadn’t realised it, but he had been metaphorically holding his breath since the accident. First, through his efforts to get to Enjolras, to see his injuries for himself, and since then it had been as though he was set on pause, waiting and wondering. Now he could add ‘hoping’ to the list, because there was definitely hope in the air, if last night was anything to go by. They couldn’t go back, but only now did he remember that there was also the option to move forwards.

He found Enjolras standing in front of the fridge-freezer in the kitchen. It was an odd pose, even for Enjolras. He stood in one of R’s old t-shirts, arms folded across his chest and a puzzled expression across his face. R noted with a small smile that he was now wearing slippers, albeit R’s Tigger ones which had been a retaliatory birthday gift for the pipe. 

Aire stepped into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle to fill it with water.

“What is it about that piece of white goods that displeases you so?” Aire chided, setting the kettle down before leaning against the counter and folding his arms in amusement.

“I’m not sure.” Enjolras chewed upon his pouting lower lip, a look of intense concentration clouding his eyes. “There is something missing.”

Unconsciously he reached forward, pressing a palm to a square space on the door. Aire’s smile faltered.

Enjolras withdrew his hand, pressing his fingers to his forehead in frustration, as though to physically pluck the thoughts from his mind. 

“Tell me. Am I making this up? It feels… it feels empty.” He looked as though he was moments away from stamping his foot, holding out an accusatory hand towards the offending door. “What is missing from this door!”

“Enjolras,” Aire started forward, reaching out, pressing his palms to the man’s cheeks, carefully but firmly holding his face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking completely lost. “I don’t even know why.” He raised his eyes up, searching for answers in Aire’s face. “It just feels wrong.” He clung to Aire, breathing harshly into his neck. Aire attempted to soothe him, whispering that it was ok, that it was fine.

“You’re right, that space is left empty for a purpose. Ok? You’re not making it up,” he reassured gently.

It hadn’t actually occurred to Aire to do any drawings since the accident. It had been their routine for years, all through the upheaval. Even in other people’s homes, even in the caravan, there had always been a drawing, a quick sketch, each day. Aire would doodle, scribble or create some small thing for Enjolras while he swallowed down his tablets, knocking them back with a glass of water every morning. Then onto the notice board, or the door, or whatever chosen surface. And then later that day a beautifully embellished E would appear. Since their move into the new house, their house, it had always been the door of the fridge.

He knew Enjolras kept all of them, hidden away in a box or a scrap book or some other place of safety. They were Aire’s gift to him, a daily piece of silent communication that they both would never be without. 

Aire ignored the pain in his chest, ignored the sensation of loss in preference for concentrating on everything that was good at the moment. It didn’t matter why they had their strange little routine, only that somewhere in Enjolras’s head it was missed, it was wanted.

As he explained to Enjolras, calming him, telling him of the daily drawings, of their little custom, he saw the man’s face clear into a relaxed expression.

“I could start again, if that’s something you want.” Aire offered. Enjolras nodded. 

“I wish you’d never stopped.” He said, almost distantly. Aire couldn’t pretend to understand what was going on in the man’s mind. But he squeezed his shoulder, reassuringly, pledging to begin again tomorrow.

+

It was the start of a spiral of negativity. Enjolras, who had been so open, so positive at the start of this whole horrendous episode, began to sink into a sort of rut. He withdrew slightly, his touches not so frequent. He was given to bouts of temper and frustration, especially if anyone dared bring up the subject of rest. Enjolras’s parents did well to accommodate this change of behaviour, managing a much better balance of understanding yet firm disapproval than Aire could ever hope to achieve and he was grateful for their presence.

When they drove to the hospital Enjolras demanded that everyone wait in the car while his stitches were removed. He outright shouted at Aire when he tried to exit the car, insisting that he wasn’t a child, that he didn’t need his hand holding all the time. As he watched Enjolras stride purposefully towards the hospital building, he felt a reassuring hand squeeze his shoulder as Marjorie attempted to silently comfort him. 

Then, one morning, Aire woke to find his bed empty, the sheets cold. He wasn’t immediately concerned, listening for any sounds that Enjolras was in the bathroom, half expecting to hear the shower. After a moment he stretched, rolling his shoulders before pulling himself from the bed and making his way down the stairs. He peered over the mezzanine, hoping to see a flash of blonde at the breakfast bar. The downstairs was empty. Enjolras was nowhere to be seen.

When he reached the ground floor, his heart telling him that something was wrong, he spotted the glass door to the veranda was ajar, cold air filtering through into the house. Through it, he could see Enjolras in the garden. Aire started forward, making to follow him, ignoring his own bare feet and lack of jumper or coat.

It was November now and the trees were bare, the ground shrouded with golden and brown leaves so carelessly discarded by nature. Enjolras stood stock still, arms wrapped round himself, staring out towards the horizon. He must have been frozen, wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Aire felt a stab of fear to his gut.

“Enjolras?” His voice was carried away from him on the slight autumnal breeze. Enjolras didn’t move.

“We haven’t been together all this time, have we.” Enjolras’s voice drifted in the cold, its hollow sound echoing in the morning air. It made Aire shiver to hear it. There was no question in his tone.

“I thought we had always been together. That all this time, all these years, it had been just us. But that’s not the case.” Still, he didn’t turn around.

“No,” Aire swallowed nervously. He had an idea about what was coming, what Enjolras was talking about. He waited patiently, speeding towards his fate, a strange acceptance settling over him. Finally Enjolras turned to face him, his eyes red-rimmed and blazing.

“You left! You fucking left me,” he gulped, talking over the crack in his voice. All that rage, all that anger and pain that Aire had been absent for the first time now smashed into him. He took a step towards him but Enjolras recoiled.

“Don’t you touch me!” He spat, looking away, biting down hard on his lip, refusing to cry. Aire paused hopelessly, before ignoring the instruction and pressing forward regardless, gathering a struggling Enjolras into his arms. The man fought helplessly against him, pitifully punching him in the arms, but more in frustration and pain than heat or anger.

“Enjolras, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He murmured against him, holding him tightly and safely, while Enjolras gave into the power of his emotions, starting to gulp and sob, his whole frame shaking. When he stopped fighting, when he finally ceased his movements, then Aire released him, falling to his knees, taking Enjolras’s hands in his, looking up at him. Enjolras kept his gaze on the frosty grass.

“I have a face in my head. It isn’t yours. This… this other face, this man. I didn’t understand. I thought I’d cheated on you. I could hardly bear to look at you.” Now he looked up. Now, those blue eyes found Aire’s brown ones, accusing and distraught.

“But it was you. You left.”

Aire looked at him, feeling his world trembling around him, waiting to collapse at any moment. He kept his hold on Enjolras’s hands.

“You went away. You went to America and left me behind.” His voice was quiet now, barely a whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I know I did. But look.” His fingers sought out the band on Enjolras’s finger, matching the one on his. “Look, here. What you’re feeling, what you’re experiencing. I know it hurts. But we got through it. Look,” he held up their clasped hands, holding the wedding ring at Enjolras’s eye level.

“That was over ten years ago,” he whispered.

“Then why does it feel like it just happened?” Enjolras was completely broken. Aire rose up, pulling him against him, holding him tight.

“I know, my love. I know. I’m sorry. I love you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Enjolras pulled away from him and ran into the house.

+

Aire didn’t want to think about the other man in Enjolras’s head. After standing for a few more minutes in the garden, looking around himself helplessly, counting in his head to stem the tide of panic rising in his chest, he returned to the house, curled himself into a little nook and called Combeferre.

+

“Oh, Combeferre, it’s so lovely to see you again,” Marjorie trilled in delight as she opened the front door to him. He greeted her pleasantly. Aire appeared behind her, hovering awkwardly, waiting for her to be finished with him, but communicating in frowns over her shoulder. Ferre nodded almost imperceptibly.

They embraced as old friends, before stepping out on the pretext of visiting Aire’s studio buildings. Once safely out of ear shot, Aire broke down completely, wrapping his arms around himself as though trying to hold himself together, whatever was left, crouching down. Ferre shook his head, a friendly hand upon his shoulder.

“I was there, Grantaire. The first time.” It was offered as comfort rather than the accusation it might once have been. But Aire found no comfort in his words.

“This is worse. This is so much worse. Because his past and that past’s future are collapsing together.” Aire shook his head, hands pressed to his face, hiding his despair. “He remembers Patrick.”

Combeferre drew a sharp breath, his fingers contracting against Aire’s shoulder. He knelt down beside him.

“We can do this, you and I. Together, we can bring him through it.”

+

Combeferre spoke with Enjolras alone. Aire took Enjolras’s parents out to Arundel as Marjorie had shown interest in the castle there. As they strolled through the gardens, making the most of the fine weather for the time of year, he tried to keep his mind from wandering back to the house.

When they returned, Enjolras was sitting, wrapped up in a blanket, on the sofa in the living room, his eyes closed as Combeferre read to him from a book. It was a peaceful scene and Aire was sorry to have disturbed it. He was grateful when Marjorie dragged Enjolras’s father away in the direction of the kitchen to make a start on dinner, while Combeferre remained unobtrusive on the bench by the window.

Enjolras took a deep breath before meeting Aire’s hesitant eyes.

“I know I asked you not to tell me anything. I know I said I wanted to remember on my own,” he started, twisting his fingers in his lap. Aire swallowed, wondering what the hell was coming next.

“That still stands. I don’t want to know. You say that happened ten years ago. Ok. So we’ll put it back in the past, where it belongs.”

Aire sank down onto the carpet next to where Enjolras sat, reaching a nervous hand forward. He let out a small sigh when Enjolras caught his hand, twining it with his own.

“It hurts, R. It really fucking hurts.” Enjolras twisted his mouth, closing his eyes and turning his head away.

“I know.” Aire wanted to kiss that look from his face. He lifted his free hand to brush it across his cheeks. “I know this feels new for you, that it is as raw as if it happened yesterday. But please, remember that we’re both here. This is the present. This is now. Not that mistake.”

“But why?” Enjolras looked up, a lost look in those beautiful blue eyes. And how could Aire possibly explain what had happened? How could he translate the decisions of his eighteen year-old self, how could he elucidate everything that had happened in those months and years leading up to his flight from the UK. He couldn’t. He merely sighed and shook his head.

“Oh Enjolras,” he muttered sadly. “You know why. That’s how you forgave me. That’s how we moved on. It’s in there somewhere and someday I know, I’m sure, you’ll find it again.” 

+

An uneasy truce descended on the house. Combeferre agreed to stay a few more days, to help Enjolras ride out the tide of his emotions, and to try and give Aire a bit of a break. He chatted easily with Marjorie, expounded education theory with Enjolras’s father, and was happy to treat Enjolras to a game of chess.

But the experience sat oppressively on Aire, left him hanging anxiously. He knew there was worse to come, that there was much worse for Enjolras to remember. He saw a face in his head, recognised the ghost of a past relationship, yet from what both he and Ferre could gather, had not yet realised the full implications, the full story of that relationship. And then there was the spectre of Venice.

It left him on edge, simultaneously waiting but hoping that those memories would never return, yet knowing that they definitely would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Mark Twain
> 
> So, erm... is everyone doing ok? Do we all have enough chocolate, tissues and kittens?


	17. No More Talk of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Enjolras’s parents had always been something of an enigma to Aire. He had only met them a handful of times and for all of the time he had known Enjolras since his return to England, they had mostly been in Australia. He was never quite sure how he felt about them, or they about him. Prior to Enjolras’s accident, if someone had told him he’d have to entertain them in his house for an extended period of time he would have been on the phone to Cosette in order to arrange a sudden and pressing engagement elsewhere, preferably on a different continent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for people being sick (if you're squeamish - it's not explicit but better mention it than not)

Enjolras’s parents had always been something of an enigma to Aire. He had only met them a handful of times and for all of the time he had known Enjolras since his return to England, they had mostly been in Australia. He was never quite sure how he felt about them, or they about him. Prior to Enjolras’s accident, if someone had told him he’d have to entertain them in his house for an extended period of time he would have been on the phone to Cosette in order to arrange a sudden and pressing engagement elsewhere, preferably on a different continent. 

He had followed Enjolras’s lead in this respect. He was aware that there had been some sort of estrangement at some point; that over the years Enjolras had maintained relations that could be described as cordial at best. Aire had never pressed Enjolras for an explanation of this, especially after the reconciliation and resulting peace that was developed at their wedding. Since then, contact had been a little more frequent. There had been skype chats and regular emails as well as invitations on both sides for visits, even if those visits had never actually happened.

Aire could clearly remember the glint in his grandfather’s eye when he shook hands with Enjolras’s father, probably remembering their last meeting in a hospital in Surrey. Marjorie, however, had always been lovely to Aire. And as soon as they had heard what had happened, there had been no hesitation, no question. They were coming across the world to be with their son and to support their son-in-law and that was that. Aire couldn’t be anything other than grateful.

Especially at the moment when he could feel himself slipping, when getting out of bed in the morning was becoming a struggle. He was trying, he really was. He was fighting against these feelings so hard. Each morning he sat at the breakfast bar with a slip of paper, staring at it, determined to draw something because Enjolras had asked him to, knocking back his personal cocktail of pills. And if Enjolras didn’t mark it, sign it or give any other kind of indication of having seen it, well. He would continue anyway. He would. Because maybe tomorrow a neat and beautiful E would appear.

Having Enjolras’s parents around meant that there were three of them coaxing, encouraging, insisting that Enjolras take care of himself. It meant there was a team to get him to take his pills, a group of them to remind him of his follow-up appointments. It meant that Aire could go down to his studio and just sit, trying to calm the white noise in his head, without worrying about leaving Enjolras alone in the house. It meant they were all there to deal with his temper.

And boy was Enjolras throwing a lot of tantrums at the moment. His brow was permanently furrowed, his lips permanently turned downwards. He had hardly anything pleasant to say to anyone as he dealt with his frustration, his exhaustion and his amnesia in the worst way possible, by bottling it up until it exploded in all directions. Aire just felt helpless in the face of it.

+

Enjolras was deeply unhappy. Despite his pledge to put their past back where it belonged, he continued to be haunted by sensations of loss and the resulting anxiety. He just felt so angry all of the time and he had no idea how to deal with it. 

He was beginning to be able to piece together some sort of timeline in his head of his emotions. Now that he knew when Aire had left for America, he was able to sort through some of the other more confusing images and feelings that were floating around. 

The anger and hostility he felt towards his father, something that he just didn’t seem to have the capability to fight, was for an event even older than Aire’s flight to the States, something that had long since been overcome with a handshake Enjolras couldn’t quite remember. He knew they were old feelings and that he should try to ignore them, but how could he when the man who had orchestrated Aire’s removal from his life, who had tried to prevent them from communicating at a time when they needed each other the most, was now amiably chatting as though it had never happened while Aire took him on a tour round his beloved studio. 

He was powerless to stop new emotions washing through him and they seemed to come thick and fast and in the wrong order, sudden surges of memory that he couldn’t control as the images floated through his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. There didn’t seem to be a pattern or a specific trigger. There was no system and the resulting lack of control left Enjolras feeling furious and helpless. He just wanted his life back.

He wanted Aire back. The complicated knot of emotion that swallowed him up whenever he looked at that man was almost too much to bear. He loved him. But he was angry and he cursed himself whenever that anger spilled out of his mouth. With every word designed to push away he wanted to grab him and shake him and pull him close. And Aire didn’t even fight it. He just stood there. Only later would he appreciate just how difficult that must have been. Only much later would he hold Aire desperately close and apologise into his chest, murmuring words through his skin as though to pierce the man’s very heart, because he stood firm and took everything that Enjolras threw at him and he never once flinched or turned or ran away. Not once.

He caught Aire looking at him sometimes, forehead creased, eyes frightened. It seemed as though he was waiting for something, though damned if Enjolras knew what it was. No doubt his unbelievably fucking messed-up brain would let him know. But what could possibly be worse than America? What could possibly lurk in their past to make R fear him so much? It made Enjolras want to scream with frustration. He wanted to know, he was desperate to know. So many times he very nearly broke his resolve, very nearly begged R to tell him. But he didn’t. He knew it would be better for his own memories to tell him, when his mind was ready.

+

He was in the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich. The house was strangely quiet, the quietest it had been in a long time. His parents had gone out for the day to visit some old friends while Aire was hiding in his studio.

He wasn’t quite sure what it was that suddenly changed, but as he went to throw something in the bin he caught sight of a flash of green, a bottle stashed behind the bin from where his parents had shared a glass of wine or two a few nights before. There was nothing special about the bottle; he wasn’t even looking at it, but it reminded him of another bottle.

A series of bottles, stashed away in a flat in Italy, and the thought of those bottles caused a flash of anxiety. He breathed out harshly through his nose, closing his eyes, hand clenching on the counter as he struggled to remain upright.

A number of things sprang into his mind all at once, making him wince. Hard plastic chairs, Éponine glaring at him, a harsh slap. And then a ripping, a terrible ripping in his heart and the most horrific, haunting sound; Aire crying. Aire hurting. Aire hurting himself.

He only just made it to the sink, retching as his body rebelled against the unwelcome tide that he couldn’t stop. _Oh dear god_.

_“Why would you do that to me?”_

What – what had he done? He wrestled round his head, trying to make sense of these flashbacks, trying to understand what was happening.

_“I can’t do this.”_

Had he spoken out loud? He wasn’t sure. He was on his knees, somehow in the living room, though he didn’t remember getting there. He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to steady his breathing. _It was in the past. It was in the past. He and Aire were married. They loved each other._

He struggled to understand how that could be possible. Remorse for all his anger, everything he had said and done over the past week or so swept through him. Why hadn’t Aire said anything? Still prone on the carpet, he clutched the side of the sofa and began to cry into the cushions.

+

Aire glanced up at the clock on the studio wall, his stomach growling, reminding him that food was a necessary evil. He trudged back up the garden, wondering what Enjolras was up to. He’d been folded up into a book when he’d last popped in to offer him a cup of tea about an hour ago.

As he stepped through the doors, the first thing that caught his attention was the abandoned sandwich, lying half made on the counter. Before he had much of a chance to puzzle it further, a sound from the living room caught his attention. As he moved through the room towards the noise, he wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent hanging in the air. Concern rose in his throat along with bile; Enjolras had been sick.

“Enjolras!” he called out, unable to hide the desperate note in his voice. Head injuries and sickness were never a good match. As he rounded the bookcase, he found the man in question, still kneeling beside the sofa, body shaking with sobs. He sank down beside him.

“Enjolras,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around him, trying to pull him away from the sofa. “Hush, come on.” Enjolras came surprisingly easily; there was none of the fight, the antagonism he’d been dealing with recently. He curled willingly into Aire’s chest, transferring his hands from the cushions to his shirt, holding on tightly as though he feared Aire might vanish into thin air.

“Talk to me, love,” he whispered, kissing the top of his head gently. Enjolras just shook his head, his eyes clenched tightly shut, breathing harshly. Aire rubbed his shoulders softly, fingers tracing circles into his back, providing comfort and reassurance. He was here. Enjolras would talk to him when he was ready.

They sat like that together for an indeterminate amount of time. Aire’s backside was beginning to ache, his shoulders straining slightly from the angle. But he stayed put, ignoring the protests of his body as Enjolras began to calm in his arms, the warmth of his body pressed against him providing its own form of comfort to Aire’s pounding heart.

“I…” he tried to speak at last, still not opening his eyes, his head pressed into the crook of Aire’s shoulder.

“It’s ok. Whatever it is, we’ve already survived it. It can’t hurt us anymore.” 

+

Enjolras searched round the pain and fog in his head, searching for something that would make Aire understand without having to go through everything again, without having to explain. A single word sprang to mind. He took a deep, steadying breath, pulling back slightly to look up at the man holding him tightly, holding him together. 

“Venice.”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He saw Aire’s face crumple with pain, saw the tremble in his eyes, felt the flex of his fingers on his arms and then he was being pulled close again and Aire was gently rocking him, soft kisses ghosting his hair. They sat together, wrapped up in each other, in silence. It was as if they both knew there weren’t enough words in the world to heal that particular wound.

He was sure he didn’t deserve this.

“Hey,” Aire murmured softly, “Shall I make us some tea? Don’t know about you but I’m going to need at least two sugars.” He moved his thumb and forefinger to Enjolras’s chin, gently lifting it so their eyes met.

“You’re ok, Enjolras. I’m ok, too. We can do this.”

He looked at Aire as though seeing him for the first time. Where had this amazing man sprung from? Where did he find the strength to just be here, just deal with this like it was ok that Enjolras had been a complete spoilt brat, had treated him so badly both before and after his accident. Why wasn’t he demanding Enjolras beg on his knees for forgiveness. Because really that was exactly what he should have been doing. He opened his mouth, but Aire cut him off.

“Enjolras,” and how Aire managed to fill those syllables with such emotion Enjolras would never know. “It’s ok. I promise. You don’t have to say anything more. Maybe in a month, if you still feel the same. But not now.” Aire was smiling. It was a strange, sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. Enjolras leant forward, slowly, hesitantly, but Aire met him with confidence, his lips firm and certain.

When they finally broke apart, Enjolras scrubbed his eyes with his hands, sucking in a deep breath.

“I do love you, you know,” he said, his words sounding rough, his throat sore. Aire kissed him again in reply.

+

They eventually managed to scramble off the carpet, Enjolras shifting, allowing Aire to stand before he offered his hands to the blonde still kneeling on the carpet. When they were both on their feet, Enjolras didn’t let go of his hand and they stumbled together towards the kitchen.

Aire set about cleaning the mess in the sink while Enjolras gingerly climbed onto one of the chairs at the breakfast bar, resting his chin on his hand, watching as Aire moved about the kitchen, apparently easy under Enjolras’s scrutiny. 

His eye fell upon the fridge and he felt a blush rise to his cheeks, spotting the doodle in its place on the door. Today it was a rough sketch of Enjolras sitting on the sofa, his head bent over a book. Slowly, he climbed down from his chair and made his way over to the fridge. With a trembling hand, he reached forward and drew a capital E in the corner of the drawing.

+

“You are always welcome here, whenever you like, my lad.” Aire closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest against the wall. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. His chest felt a bit lighter now that the worst had actually happened, but he still wanted to be away, to be somewhere else. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe.

“Even with an entire entourage in tow?” he asked, because there was no way on this planet he was going anywhere without Enjolras and it would just be rude to leave the parents-in-law to fend for themselves.

“Especially then, and I’m glad to hear you’re not planning to sneak up here alone,” his grandmother’s tone was light but with an undercurrent of concern. She knew him so well, there was no hiding anything.

“I’m not. I just… we need some time.” He heard her cluck down the phone in sympathy. He hated to worry his grandparents. Now in their mid-seventies they were not as sprightly as they once were. His grandmother had never fully recovered from her stroke. She still periodically went for check ups to ensure that the cancer was still in remission. Those phone calls that followed the appointments hung over him like a cloud, even if she remained resolutely cheerful about the whole thing.

When Aire had last visited just over a month ago he had been shocked to witness his grandfather making use of the stairlift that had been installed for his grandmother after her stroke. It was a sharp and unwelcome reminder of their advancing years.

That night, as they lay in bed together, R suggested the trip to Sheffield. He wasn’t sure how the idea would be received. He knew Enjolras still had reservations about meeting people he couldn’t remember and Aire wasn’t sure if his grandparents featured in that list. But he also knew Enjolras was going stir crazy being kept in the house. A change of scene would do him some good, especially after the emotional rollercoaster they had just been through.

Enjolras agreed readily enough, his words careless in the darkness as he snuggled into Aire’s side, pressing a delicate kiss to his ribcage. 

So, the following day, they threw a few things into a suitcase and piled into the Clio. Enjolras blushed as his father enquired why they weren’t taking the larger car. Aire just grinned at him smugly. He was incredibly fond of his Clio, even if it was going to scream in protest for the entire two hundred and twenty mile trip to Sheffield. 

After five hours and two service station stops, they finally pulled up outside Elsa and Jim’s neat little house.

“Oh my god!” Enjolras exclaimed, his eyes widening. Aire turned to him, his face clouded with confusion, but Enjolras’s face was alight with wonder. He turned to Aire, tearing his eyes away from the house.

“It’s the blue door.”

+

It was the blue door; the door that had haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts since pretty much the day he had woken up. It had begun to impress itself on memories where it didn’t belong as Enjolras sought desperately to find the meaning behind it. But here he was, suddenly before it.

For once, he was overtaken with positivity, with exhilaration, anticipation and excitement. Through this door lay his entire relationship with Aire. Aire at eighteen, alive and well. Not dead. He savoured the relief that accompanied that memory.

Aire walking through that door, appearing as if by magic in the wake of violent events involving that other face which troubled his thoughts.

It was the blue door through which they had walked, hand in hand, a few weeks before a Christmas years ago, stumbling with exhaustion and yet so happy despite the darkness that surrounded them.

It all popped into focus, the jumble of nonsense suddenly making sense. He lifted exhilarated eyes, trying to communicate all of this to Aire who sat still beside him, waiting. And really, who could blame him? He reached out and squeezed his hand.

“You and I,” he said, trying to find the words to explain. “You and I and this door.” He shook his head, giving up entirely before leaning forward to capture his surprised husband in a kiss, ignoring the pointed cough from the backseat. 

“Come on,” he said, breaking away at last. He unbuckled his seatbelt and scrambled out of the car, leaving an amused silence in his wake.

+

The following day found all six of them taking a turn in the Sheffield Botanical Gardens, beautiful even in its winter shroud.

As they meandered through the Rose Garden in the vague direction of the bear pit, Enjolras was surprised by the fatigue that engulfed him. It was the first time he had properly been out and about and he was determined to show his ridiculous body who was boss.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t expect to hide his increasing pallor from Aire’s sharp eyes. He slowed his pace, pausing to look hard at a particular breed of rose as though especially interested.

“Feuilly would love this,” Enjolras blurted out before pressing his lips together as though to prevent further words from escaping, unbidden. Aire nodded casually.

“Yes, yes he would. You’ll have to tell him about it.” They linked hands, continuing to amble through the flowerbeds.

A little further on, they found Elsa sitting comfortably on a bench, retrieving a thermos flask. She offered a cup to Enjolras and he found himself being propelled towards the bench.

“I’m going to catch up with your Mum and Dad, see if they want a cup,” and without further comment, Aire jogged off after the retreating figures of Enjolras’s parents.

Enjolras stared after him, consciously aware of the searching look he was currently subject to from Elsa.

“You’re tired,” she said simply and he bowed his head, sighing slightly.

“Yes,” he admitted, too exhausted to deny it.

“You still have to give yourself time, you know. Just because your stitches are out and your memories are coming back, doesn’t mean you can stop taking it easy. You got signed off for a reason.” She gave him a firm look and he bit down on his lip. He would never even dream of talking back to the lady who sat next to him. She huffed at him in disapproval.

“You two always have to do it the hard way,” she sighed, regretfully.

+

These were the good days. Enjolras and Aire enjoyed being back in the privacy of Aire’s old basement room. Both Enjolras and Aire had good memories of this room, not to mention it was deliciously private and cut off from the rest of the house. They could retreat down here and just be themselves, just be normal for a few hours away from the grown-ups upstairs.

After a lot of coaxing and encouragement and promises to say if he felt even remotely headachey or nauseous, Enjolras had managed to convince Aire to fuck him. It had been absolutely glorious, even if it left him groggy with a head rush at the end – something he staunchly played down and outright denied when asked by a terrified Aire.

“It’s called an afterglow, R, just relax,” he had muttered with closed eyes, hoping that Aire wouldn’t press any further, wanting to hold this moment tight.

These were the good days where Enjolras seemed more relaxed than he ever had back in their home in Sussex. He rang Combeferre quite often, just to chat with him, something that warmed Aire’s heart a little because it felt like normal.

For his part, he was ringing Jehan far less than he had been. Jehan sent him a text every day just to check in and make casual conversation but otherwise, it felt like things were beginning to even out a little. It helped that Enjolras was visibly in a better mood.

He would suddenly look up and grin at him and say “Disneyland Paris?” or “Southwold?” with a smirk or a laugh and Aire would just grin right back at him. He seemed so much more comfortable in his skin and that made Aire happy. 

Aire longed for the day he remembered Norway, because he found himself thinking of it more and more often. More than Ireland, more than a motorway services car park. More than a conversation and a promise in Courfeyrac and Jehan’s spare room back in London. That day felt like a lifetime ago, that moment when Enjolras had dropped everything for him; when they had been young and foolish and ever so in love. More than all of those wonderful memories, he wished fervently for the day Enjolras would remember Norway. 

He wanted Enjolras to remember how they had stood, necks craned to watch the Aurora Borealis flicker green across the dark sky. There was that crazy night spent at the Ice Hotel, huddled together in two sleeping bags, their hotel room a staggering -7 degrees. In the morning they had both woken to damp noses where the ice had melted from the warmth of their combined breath.

In sharp contrast, the yurt had been delightful, with its wood fire and creature comforts. The yurt, set deep in the woods, where they had slept upon reindeer skin, tangled together wishing their time there would never end.

He thought of the dog sled ride that neither had expected to enjoy yet both had done, immensely. They had been surprised by the speed and the exhilaration. He thought of Enjolras’s cheeks flushed pink, the rest of his pale face glowing in the moonlight. 

But, he told himself, it would come with time. Enjolras was coming back to him. Slowly, he was returning.

+

One night Enjolras woke Aire, excitedly shaking him. Aire, befuddled with sleep, struggled to prise open his eyes to concentrate on the over-excited blonde in his bed.

“Aire!” he hissed, the sound harsh in the dark. He blinked at him, groaning to show that he was awake. In the glow of the digital clock on the bedside table, Aire could make our Enjolras’s excited eyes, his dazzling smile in the shadows.

He leant forward, kissing him intently. Aire made a small noise of surprise but had no objection, arms coming up to fold round those skinny shoulders. He wasn’t sure what he’d done in his past to deserve being woken in such a manner in the middle of the night but he was sure all would be explained in due course.

Finally, Enjolras sat back, his eyes blazing, a look that Aire had missed greatly.

“Times Square, my love. I remember us at Times Square.”

Aire hadn’t been able to hold back at the sound of those words, at the hope and love in his voice. He rose up to capture Enjolras’s mouth in another kiss, rolling on top of him, pressing him back into the sheets. Enjolras permitted it, welcomed it, clinging to Aire as the happiness of that moment washed over him as though it had only just happened.

They rolled together in the darkness, softly moaning and gasping as they moved, lips and teeth clashing messily as they both sought more from the other. Aire handled Enjolras tenderly, not out of fear but out of reverence. He wanted to hold this beautiful creature in his arms for the rest of time, should fate allow it. He wanted to Enjolras to feel, to know just how much Aire loved him, had loved him then, and even more so now. 

They were both lost in the happiness of that moment, content, tangled and united.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, so, profuse apologies are due to besanii and to Sarah (purple_embroidery) for scaring the living bejebus out of them earlier. Am I forgiven?
> 
> Sheffield Botanical Gardens do have a bear pit (complete with statue of a bear). It contained two bears until 1870 and an incident involving the hungry bears and a curious child. You know what they say about curiosity and cats? curiosity and children and bears is even messier.
> 
> Also, thank you to epeolatry for being my ever-so-patient and talented beta.
> 
> Title taken from "All I Ask of You" because I've had Phantom of the Opera floating around my brain for a couple of days and I've been thinking an awful lot about choices and destiny with these two.
> 
> Everyone still breathing, I hope!


	18. I Can't Tell You But I Know It's Mine

“What did we do for your birthday?”

Aire wasn’t entirely surprised by the question. It was less than a week until Enjolras turned thirty and the birthday boy in question had been sitting very quietly, not turning the pages of his book, chewing petulantly on his lower lip. It was an endearing trait that he had recently picked up and usually was the forerunner to an enquiry. Aire set his sketch book aside, leaning forward to give Enjolras his full attention.

“You and I went out for a quiet dinner. I was due to fly out early the next day so we decided not to have a big party,” he paused, wondering whether or not to tell Enjolras the full story, before deciding that he may has well continue. He leaned back, forcing his shoulders into a casual stance.

“We were going to have a joint party in December, to celebrate both of us successfully reaching our third decade.” Aire smiled ruefully. Enjolras returned it sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“And here was me thinking I’d forgotten the party of the century,” he grumbled softly, his forehead crinkled. He had imagined that Aire’s thirtieth would have been a loud affair, surrounded by friends. Part of him felt bad that he was almost relieved that it was one less thing to worry about having forgotten.

“What would you like to do for yours?” Aire asked gently, getting up from his seat and going to join Enjolras on their long, comfortable sofa. Enjolras leaned into his weight, resting his head on Aire’s chest, welcoming his husband’s long, talented fingers as they toyed with his hair.

“We could still have a party,” he replied after a small amount of consideration. In truth, he had been thinking about it for a while now. He appreciated that his friends had given him some time and space to try and sort himself out, a chance to get his feet on the ground so he could begin to rediscover his path. But now he was anxious to meet them again. If he couldn’t remember them as well as we would like, he could at least meet them in order to try and get reacquainted.

“We can do whatever you want, my love.” Aire muttered vaguely, waiting for Enjolras to tell him what he wanted. Enjolras smiled in spite of himself. He wriggled round to face him.

“Yes. I would like a party. I would like all our friends to come. And we’ll have a big cake.” Aire grinned at him, at his enthusiasm. It was refreshing.

“Ok, then. A party with friends and cake it shall be.”

+

It had been surprisingly easy to organise. They would host the gathering in their house, with sufficient space to put up any friends who needed to stay over.

Cosette sent her apologies and a bouquet of flowers as she would be unable to attend, while Marius rang from Boston to explain that there was no way he would be allowed time off so soon after starting his new job. Everyone else, however, responded with the affirmative. Even Éponine, currently stationed in Germany, made arrangements to pop back for the weekend.

Aire was feeling unusually positive about the whole thing. If there was one thing that he trusted as much as the love and safety of his grandparents in Sheffield, then it was the love and support of their friends.

They hadn’t had a party, not a proper party, since the infamous event Courfeyrac had cheekily dubbed the “house breaking” when Enjolras and R had finally moved into their new home.

The house had, up until that point, been far too clean and static for Aire’s liking. Even Enjolras had detected a certain something that wasn’t quite right and they had been so relieved when they found out they both felt the same about their new place. After all that time, all that effort and planning and anticipation, it had been a stomach-dropping anti-climax to move in and find that it didn’t feel like home straight away.

Jehan and Courfeyrac had been their first guests and, bless Jehan in all his graceful glory, he had sipped his wine and waved his hand and said “Well of course it will feel cold. You haven’t had your house warming party,” as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Once their motley group of friends had descended, after the first glass of beer had been spilled, the first scratch on the table had appeared, once the table itself had been moved because it was in the way, then it had started to feel like home.

It definitely felt like home when they all woke up the following day, not in their beds, but scattered about downstairs on chairs and beanbags. Courf and Jehan were wedged together on the window seat, while Joly and Bossuet had managed to squeeze themselves between the wall and the sofa. Éponine had been curled up against Cosette on a beanbag by the fireplace. Only Feuilly had made it upstairs, but just as far as the bathroom. Bahorel roared with laughter when he found him stretched out in the bathtub with a cushion.

After that, Enjolras and Aire had begun to learn how their house worked and made it work for them. They shuffled, experimented and made it theirs. They essentially broke it and built it up again and it was the best experience, something that Aire always thought of with a smile.

As Joly and Bossuet were coming down from Birmingham, they arrived first on the Friday night, the day before the main event. Bossuet begged Aire to cook his famous goulash for them and a pleasant evening was spent at the table, talking about old times. Enjolras was quiet at first, content to listen to the others chatter, occasionally feeling brave enough to offer an input. After a while, he relaxed as he began to recognise and relate some of the confusing information in his head to the two men before him. He was surprised when Aire nudged him and pointed out that it was long past midnight and their poor guests had been travelling all day.

When Enjolras woke the following morning, it was to Aire kissing his forehead, whispering that he would be back soon and that breakfast was downstairs along with their guests.

Aire had arranged to pick up Éponine from the airport. He wasn’t happy leaving Enjolras alone for any amount of time, but if Enjolras could be left in anyone’s safe keeping then it was Joly’s. Not only was he a very capable physician, but he had successfully been leading Bossuet through the rickety path of life for well over fifteen years now. So he suppressed his anxiety and concentrated on the drive to Gatwick.

Éponine greeted him enthusiastically, throwing her arms round him, ignoring the stares of other people in the terminal.

“You look like shit, mate,” she said fondly, shaking her head at the dark shadows clearly visible under his eyes.

“Pleasant as ever, Ep, nice to see you too,” he squeezed her tightly before releasing her and bending to pick up her abandoned suitcase.

“How are you doing?” she asked, as they made their way back to Aire’s car. She eyed him critically. He had definitely lost a bit of weight, and he hadn’t exactly been overweight to start with. He shot her a tired smile as he put the suitcase into the boot and moved round to get in the car.

“Oh, you know. Same as always.”

“That bad, huh?” Éponine smirked as R snorted with laughter, a genuine smile spreading on his face.

“I guess I walked into that one,” he muttered ruefully, putting the car into gear.

They talked easily, all the way back to Sussex. He told her about Enjolras’s progress, about their successful trip to Sheffield and how things had slowly started to improve as some of Enjolras’s memories returned.

“He won’t ever be the same, I don’t think. I mean, no human remembers every single waking thing that happens to them,” he sighed deeply, changing lanes to head towards the motorway exit. “But I hope he’ll be able to remember all the key events at some point. You know,” he clicked his tongue, glancing into the rear view mirror, “like our wedding.”

Éponine drew in her breath sharply.

“Oh, R!” She desperately wanted to reach out to him, to let him know it would be ok.

“It’s fine, really,” he said hoarsely, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “He’s alive. If that means sacrificing a few moments from the past then so be it. Just why it couldn’t be, I don’t know, his memories of watching paint dry, I don’t know.”

They travelled the rest of the way in silence.

+

Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan and Courfeyrac arrived together in Courf’s ridiculously ostentatious BMW 520. Enjolras stood at the door to greet them, suddenly feeling rather dry in the throat. He knew he worked with Courfeyrac and Bahorel, that he had been friends with these people for years and that he loved them all dearly.

He knew bits and pieces about them, for example he knew that Feuilly was an accomplished horticulturalist and that he used to live with Jehan had Courfeyrac before moving in with Bahorel. He knew that R had become Courf and Jehan’s new flatmate after Feuilly moved out. These were all facts, but they weren’t memories. Not yet.

Now that the flesh and blood stood before him, he was slightly overwhelmed by the swirl of thoughts and images that fought to the surface. For some reason he could see Jehan and Courf shouting at each other, angry and dirty and hate-fuelled. He looked at Bahorel and Feuilly and he thought of mirrors in the darkness, a vision which made absolutely no sense to him.

They all greeted him jovially. It was a thrum of voices, all expressing their joy at seeing him up and about and looking so well. Bahorel outright laughed at the state of Enjolras’s hair, while Courf pumped his arm in greeting, Jehan pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

They moved through to the living room, cries of joy and delight resounding through the house as they saw Joly and Bossuet. He watched as Jehan embraced Aire tightly, murmuring in his ear. He watched as the man stood on tiptoe to bestow a kiss on Aire’s forehead.

He watched Feuilly accept a beer from Bahorel who had, naturally, found his way to the fridge, frowning slightly as the images in his head didn’t match up. He watched as his friends grouped together, chatting easily.

Finally, he gave in and pulled Aire to one side.

“What is it?” Aire’s voice was full of concern at the look on Enjolras’s face. He looked so solemn, so worried and Aire couldn’t help the leap of worry in his throat.

“Jehan and Feuilly… were they ever…” he gestured with his hands, hoping to get the point across without having to say it out loud. Aire’s face broke into a smile of relief.

“Sort of. It’s complicated, but it’s not taboo. I’m sure you can bring it up without anyone getting upset.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras quietly, not sure he understood but satisfied that it wasn’t another negative memory to add to the list.

Combeferre was the last to arrive, offering a smiling apology as he strolled into the living room, and was instantly pounced upon by Courfeyrac. Enjolras felt his chest relax at the sight of him, venturing into the throng of people to welcome him. A soft squeeze to his elbow managed to extract a smile; for some reason, Combeferre made it easier to deal with everything, made the whole thing less terrifying.

“It’s like old times,” Combeferre commented, an oaky warmth to his tone that Enjolras responded to, his initially tentative smile growing wider and more genuine. Like old times; that was good to hear.

He began to enjoy the party after that, trying to push the confusion of nonsense to the back of his mind, making an effort to concentrate on the present for once.

It turned out he had an excellent taste in friends. They all got on so well together. It was evident they hadn’t all been in the same room together for a long time, each busy with their respective lives and careers. There was a lot of catching up to be done as each took it in turn to update everyone else on what they had been up to in the months since they had last met.

Combeferre was doing his leadership training, a fact that surprised no one. Bossuet’s unexpected success as a children’s author seemed to be the biggest news in the room, and Enjolras found himself sinking into that conversation with ease, where everyone, not just him, were hungry for answers to their many questions.

Aire cast a glance round the gathering. Ok, it wasn’t as wild as the house breaking. Courfeyrac hadn’t climbed onto the table yet, Bossuet still had both his eyebrows and Bahorel had been thoroughly banned from suggesting any kind of drinking game that involved body paint. But Enjolras was smiling. A real, actual smile that lit up his whole face, a slight flush painting his cheeks as he watched and listened. This felt good, this felt familiar.

Enjolras looked up, catching Aire’s eye and focusing that dazzling smile upon him. It was ridiculous how that look alone made the air catch in his lungs. He felt Bahorel’s sharp elbow nudge him in the ribs as Enjolras returned his attention to the conversation.

“He seems to be doing all right,” his mate muttered, but his eyebrow was raised, as though giving R the opportunity to contradict him, making it more of a question.

“He’s doing great. I think this is the most animated and involved I’ve seen him,” R replied, not taking his eyes off the man in question. Bahorel elbowed him again, forcing him to actually tear his gaze away, just for a moment.

“And you?” Aire rolled his eyes but he caught the undercurrent of worry in Bahorel’s eyes and he knew then that there was something more to the question. He risked a quick look to the window seat and just caught Jehan turning hurriedly back to playing with Courf’s hair and he understood.

His heart ached a little and he wondered if the two had drawn straws to decide who got to try and talk to R about his feelings. Wincing slightly, he pulled a hand through his hair, trying to give his mate an honest answer.

“I’ll live.”

He wouldn’t dare tell Bahorel that he was fine. That wasn’t how they worked. But this would suffice. Bahorel stared at him for a moment, as though trying to guess R’s thoughts, before deciding he was halfway convinced, slamming his hand on R’s shoulder in a warm gesture of camaraderie and using the guy to heave himself up, out of his chair with the intention of replenishing his empty beer.

At some point they remembered that it was meant to be a birthday party and a cake was produced. Courfeyrac insisted on howling his way through Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs, while Enjolras was ordered to blow out the candles. At that point, he strode across the room and grabbed hold of Aire, pulling him up out of his seat and over to the cake.

“It’s your birthday, too,” he laughed, pushing R towards the cake. Aire shook his head, protesting but Enjolras grabbed his hand.

“Together!” Enjolras insisted, grinning.

For a moment, Aire couldn’t breathe. _Together_. That word echoed round his head along with a hundred memories. There was a moment of silence in the room, but before it could get awkward, just as Enjolras’s smile began to morph into confusion, Aire gave his hand a squeeze.

“Together,” he replied, pausing only to kiss Enjolras.

“Count us in, Courf?”

The moment broke and the atmosphere returned. Courfeyrac staggered to his feet, climbing up to stand on the footstool, raising his hands theatrically to lead them to a count of three.

They both took a deep breath as Jehan called out to them to make a wish.

+

~~Dear Cosette~~ ,  
 ~~Hi Cosette,~~  
 ~~Cosette,~~

~~It is with deepest regret~~  
 ~~I am sure you can understand with everything that has happened~~  
 ~~Please accept this as my official, formal and final resignation from the Congregavit.~~

Dear Cosette,

I’m really sorry to do this to you but I’m sure you won’t be surprised by the contents of this email. You once told me that life was too short and you were right. You were talking about Enjolras then as well.

I appreciate everything you have done for me over the years. For every kick up the arse, for every time you’ve held my hand, gently negotiated me into the right decision and firmly steered me away from the wrong one.

Enjolras is my life. I never, ever want to go through what happened in Denmark ever again. I don’t want to be without him. I know there was nothing I could have done if I had been there. But the fact that I wasn’t, the fact that he woke up alone, will haunt me for the rest of my days.

So if it comes down to a choice between my work and my husband you know what the answer will be.

If you need this in a slightly more formal setting please let me know and I’ll have another go.  
Love and best wishes,

R

+

Hey sweetheart,

I’ll put a copy of your email in my “rejected resignations” file.  
I understand completely. Take all the time you need. If it turns out your hiatus is permanent then we’ll discuss it in, say, six months’ time. Otherwise, enjoy your sabbatical!

C x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the last chapter this year - there's going to be a gap while I ~~am kidnapped and forced against my will to~~ spend valuable and precious time with ~~a bunch of troglodytes~~ my inlaws who ~~unbelievably~~ unfortunately don't have the internet. 
> 
> You can tell I'm really looking forward to christmas this year...
> 
> Title is taken from "With A Little Help From My Friends" by the Beatles because of reasons.


	19. The Gods Are Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wants to go back to work

“I want to go back to work.”

Aire couldn’t say he was particularly surprised when, just after Christmas, Enjolras put down his book and fixed him with an exacting look, an intense gaze which usually preceded a statement of intent.

It was his “I want to be taken seriously” face which he had been employing more and more as he negotiated his new path. Aire found it thoroughly endearing, even if his heart did beat a little faster when he saw it, wondering what Enjolras wanted now.

Christmas had been a quiet affair. After a fair amount of discussion and a number of invitations to London and Sheffield, it had been decided to spend the actual day together, just them, in their house, before going up to Sheffield on Boxing Day for two days.

Three days before Christmas, they had travelled to London together to have lunch with the Prouvaires, to see the lights in Regent Street and the tree in Trafalgar Square. They had taken a bus from Charing Cross, Enjolras insisting on sitting at the front of the top deck like a young child, eyes wide as they watched the world slide past them. 

They had retired into a bustling pub just off Oxford Street, the atmosphere alight with the promise of the festive season. Glasses had been clinked in cheers as they wished each other a Merry Christmas, the prospect of a Happy New Year even more poignant than usual.

On Christmas Day itself Aire had cooked a traditional Christmas dinner for them after a decidedly lazy start to the day. Enjolras had been delightfully excited about the presents waiting under the tree. Aire had treated Enjolras by purchasing nearly every book off his Amazon wish list, as well as spoiling him with a few others he had spotted and thought his husband might appreciate. Enjolras, for his part, had bought Aire the Harry Potter Wizard’s collection DVD boxset. He had greatly enjoyed the sharp intake of breath, the reverent way R had run his fingers along the outside of the box before carefully removing the lid and spending a delighted thirty minutes as he explored every nook and cranny.

A pleasant afternoon had been passed in a haze of games and goodwill, before curling up together on the sofa to watch the Christmas specials on the TV. Aire had hardly noticed, taking time to enjoy the warmth of Enjolras pressed against him, the blond head resting on his chest.

It had been a pleasant change to retreat to Sheffield under happy circumstances. They had been welcomed warmly by Aire’s grandparents, as always, and the time they passed there was relaxed and happy, before returning down south to Bahorel and Feuilly’s annual New Year’s party.

As the clock struck midnight and their lips met in a whispered Happy New Year, both men were relieved to finally leave that year behind. While Enjolras dreamed of rebuilding his life even further, of getting back to some shred of normalcy, Aire tried to suppress the sense of dread pooling in his stomach, wondering what the New Year might throw at them now that the old year was done.

And now here they were in January, with Enjolras looking right at him, mouth pinched in determination as though getting ready for battle. Clearly he was expecting Aire to object and had already spent some time formulating responses and counter-arguments to those objections.

What Enjolras hadn’t taken into consideration was the possibility that Aire might agree with him.

Enjolras was a lot better than the confused, angry and terrified human being that had been released from the hospital at the end of October. He had made a lot of progress and to look at him and talk to him you wouldn’t guess that his previously tidy and well-organised brain was now scattered in all directions. 

But Enjolras was also extremely bored, something he had tried to suffer with a modicum of decorum and patience, but there was no escaping the onset of cabin fever. He was still brilliant, still driven, even if not everything was working as well as it used to. That drive to be doing _something_ was sending him over the edge and Aire knew it was time to think about that final step to normality.

“I guess you better make an appointment with the doctor then, and see what they say,” he said lightly, carelessly, as though he had no strong feelings on the matter. Enjolras narrowed his eyes, trying to work out if Aire was making fun of him or not.

“I’m serious, R, I want to go back to work. I think it will be good for me.” He stood up, drawing himself to his full height and Aire smiled to see the way he held himself so tall, his shoulders back, chin up, eyes blazing. It was so recognisable, even if he knew Enjolras was wearing this stance like a child playing dress-up in adult clothing.

“I know you are, love, and so am I. But if you want to go back to work you’re going to have to get the agreement of more than just me. At the very least you’ll need a fitnote from the doctor, not to mention I think Courf and Bahorel will have something to say about it.”

He held out his arms, welcoming Enjolras to him, hugging him close.

“I think it’s a good idea, as long as the professionals have no objections. Ok?” He looked down at the vaguely pouting man in his arms. Enjolras jerked his head in acquiescence. 

+

When Enjolras returned home two days later, waving his fitnote smugly, Aire couldn’t help but be reminded of Neville Chamberlain returning from Munich.

“Have we peace in our time?” he chided, kissing his husband in welcome and earning a scowl from the man in his arms.

“It’s not all good news. They want to me to work part time for at least three months,” he pouted slightly, and Aire mentally congratulated the doctors for sticking to their guns and not giving in to that petulant stare. “So only three days a week.”

“Also,” and here he looked up at Aire with very young eyes indeed, slightly uncertain and cautious. “Well, I’m still not allowed to drive,” he muttered, twisting his mouth. 

Aire nodded in understanding. This had been an extremely sore point for Enjolras. He had no independence at all. Their healthy, adult selves had chosen a deliberately remote location for their private haven away from the world. However, in their new reality it meant that Enjolras relied on Aire entirely if he wanted to go somewhere, something he resented to the extreme. On one occasion he had been heard to snarl that he did not require a babysitter. Aire hadn’t been able to stifle his laughter as his husband did an excellent impression of a teenager having a fit of temper, storming up the stairs and stamping into his study, slamming the door behind him.

“I’ll drive you,” he shrugged his shoulders. Truthfully he had expected this, even though Enjolras obviously hadn’t considered it. He was more than happy to drive Enjolras to work and back if it meant Enjolras being able to go to work and make another important step towards feeling normal again.

Enjolras shook his head violently in objection.

“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you, R. It’s a waste of your time.” He frowned deeply, pulling back to give Aire the full force of his gaze but the man was unmoved.

“I told you, Enjolras, I am on ‘hiatus’. I’m not doing any work for JVJ for the foreseeable future. And if I get my way, I won’t be doing any work for them ever again. _You_ ,” he cupped Enjolras’s face in his hands; his husband wasn’t the only one capable of intense gazes. “You are so much more important to me.”

Their lips met in gentle, mutual recognition of their importance to the other. But when they broke apart it was clear that Enjolras was not finished.

“Seriously, Aire. I could stay with the Prouvaires. I spoke to Courf and he said it would be fine –” He stopped as R snorted at his words. He raised an eyebrow challengingly as R continued to chuckle, running fingers through Enjolras’s hair which, mercifully, was almost back to a reasonable length.

“Courf was lying, probably in the hope that I would talk some sense into you,” he said kindly, unable to take his hands from Enjolras, enjoying how alive he felt beneath his touch.

“They’ve been married for less than a year, sweetheart. They were definitely being generous with the truth if they said having you stay with them wouldn’t be an issue. Jehan would murder you after a week.” He chuckled at Enjolras’s suddenly wide eyes.

“Secondly,” his voice took on a more serious tone, bringing his hands to rest on Enjolras’s shoulders. “If you think for one moment that I’m letting you out of my sight you can think again.” 

Enjolras pulled a face but the matter was not up for negotiation.

+

Enjolras was delighted to walk into the office the following Monday. Aire dropped him off at half past nine in the morning and they had shared a quick kiss, with Aire promising to pick him up at four o’clock as agreed.

Courfeyrac leapt up as he walked through the door, reaching out to pull him into a tight hug. Enjolras stiffened, wondering if that was entirely appropriate in a professional environment, before returning the hug, professionalism be damned. Bahorel clapped him soundly on the back and then he was guided over to his desk.

He observed it with a certain amount of apprehension. There were piles of folders and files, a noticeboard covered in post-it notes and a telephone blinking with answerphone messages. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he brushed his fingers over the wood of the desk, spotting the photo next to the computer of R in a suit at a function, and he enjoyed the sensation of his mind actually working for once, matching the photo to an event they had attended together three years before. He turned back to Bahorel and Courf who were both grinning at him.

“So,” he said bracingly, clapping his hands together with enthusiasm, “What should I do first?”

Courf and Bahorel looked at each other, a silent agreement passing between them. Then Courfeyrac had turned back to him.

“Mine has two sugars,” he replied cheekily.

“No milk in mine, mate, cheers!” finished Bahorel, chuckling. 

Enjolras opened his mouth, ready with an indignant reply. But really, it was his first day back and his brain, though considerably better than it had been, felt like a machine that hadn’t been oiled or sprayed with WD40 in a very long time. Perhaps some coffee was just what was required.

He snapped his mouth shut and stalked off to the kitchen area with as much dignity as he could muster.

The rest of the day passed quite pleasantly, even if he had been relegated to photocopying and shredding duty. At first, he had felt a bit stupid, pressing buttons mechanically like an office temp, but he reasoned that he was at least being useful and taking the pressure off his friends and colleagues. Both men had been doing the work of three for the past couple of months and it was nice to at least be helpful to them, even if he felt awkward. 

He also struggled with a vague sense of humiliation which he was slightly ashamed of. He would have to discuss that with Aire later, because really why should he be ashamed of working? He had prided himself on his sense of fairness and equality and now, here he was, having an internal crisis about basic office tasks.

There had also been a terrible moment when Enjolras had returned from lunch to find an empty office. He had moved towards the kitchen area, pausing at the door, his feet stopped in their tracks at the sound of what could only be described as a badly suppressed sob.

“Come on, mate, he’ll be back in a minute!” That was Courf’s voice and it was begging, pleading. Enjolras wanted to step back, aware that he was intruding, but caught by the fact that they could only be talking about him. In the end his curiosity won and he stayed put.

“I don’t know how R does it,” Bahorel’s voice was gruff with distress and Enjolras struggled to equate the broken sob from moments before with the leviathan he had come to know. “That man! Fuck, Courf, you know he taught me everything, practically dragged my sorry arse to actually fucking graduate and I can’t –” Bahorel broke off and there was a muffled sound. Evidently Courf was hugging him.

“I know, man, I know.” Courf’s voice was firm. “But this isn’t going to help. You can’t fall apart in front of him. He’s back at work and we’re going to get him back up to scaring the shit out of barristers before you know it.”

Enjolras moved then. He had heard enough. He returned to the front door and made sure to open it loudly so the men would hear him and assume he had just returned. When Courf exited the kitchen alone, Enjolras smiled at him, forcing his cheeks to work, and when Bahorel appeared five minutes later, looking as though he had a cold, Enjolras buried his head in the filing.

When Aire picked him up that afternoon, he had been absolutely exhausted, falling asleep in the car on the way home.

+

For the first week, Aire explored Dorking, sitting in local cafes, going to bookshops and junk shops. The weather wasn’t clement enough to sit outside and sketch in the park, but he intended to do just that as soon as it stopped raining.

On the Wednesday of the third week, Aire had decided to take a turn in the local gallery. It had been a long time since he had voluntarily entered a gallery as a guest. He moved about in a relaxed fashion, soaking up the quiet atmosphere, watching the people around him more than the art on the walls. He enjoyed the concentration on their faces, the way they tilted their heads to one side, considering the work before them.

On his way out, he spotted a vacancy sign for a part time receptionist and guide. For a laugh, he picked up an application form.

+

“Detail any experience you have which may be useful in the art gallery environment,” Aire read out the questions on the application form dryly, barely containing his mirth. He was lying on his back on their bed, calling out to Enjolras who was drowning himself in the bath.

“That’s all very well and good,” Enjolras replied, appearing from the bathroom, a towel slung round his waist, his damp curls clinging to his head, still dripping with water. “But you do realise no one is going to believe you if you put down that you’re the artist known as R.”

Aire shrugged carelessly, looking back down at the form.

He didn’t know why, but he was attracted to it, unable to leave the idea alone. While he had no regrets about giving up his work with JVJ, he was beginning to share Enjolras’s itchy feet. He had spent a fair amount of time doing rough sketches, the occasional painting just for his own interest. But this would be something else. This would be something to keep his mind entertained while Enjolras was at work. There was an added bonus as well in that Enjolras would stop worrying about wasting Aire’s time. Now they would be sharing a lift to work, pressing Enjolras’s equality buttons beautifully.

So he filled out the form as best he could, keeping his experience vague but utilising his phrasing to convey that he knew what he was talking about. For his references, he put down Jehan and Bahorel who both agreed to sing his praises if required.

+

The best thing about being Enjolras’s taxi driver was being able to control when he left work. One thing that definitely hadn’t changed was his overwhelming sense of drive and if Enjolras had his way, he would be working the same hours as Courfeyrac and Bahorel, not the six hours, three days a week he had been permitted by the doctor.

Not that Enjolras was doing much work. He was finding it quite difficult, being back. Some things came to him without issue, returned to him as though he had never fallen down that escalator. He found himself calling out advice to Courfeyrac, quoting obscure law articles and codes to Bahorel without so much as a second thought. Often these statements left him feeling muddled, but seeing Bahorel smile, seeing Courf grin broadly every time it happened made it ok, lessened that painful stab of confusion that threatened to engulf him. It almost felt like old times.

But more often than not, he felt foggy and frustrated. He tried to concentrate on the good he was doing, throwing himself into the administrative aspects of work. He was happy to type up case notes, using it as an exercise in reacquainting himself with his career, while trying to repress the sense of despair, wondering how on earth he would ever be able to practise law properly when he barely remembered the difference between Business Law and Administrative Law.

However, Enjolras being Enjolras, he persevered.

+

R loved his new job. He suspected that his boss was not at all fooled by his assertion that he was casually interested in art, but as there seemed to be a silent agreement not to press the point, he was happy to work his Wednesdays and Fridays and every fourth Saturday in the little gallery.

He enjoyed talking to the patrons, offering them tips if they seemed the sort to welcome a bit of extra information. He could get quite chatty when he was put on hall duty, sitting in the gallery ostensibly to offer any assistance if required, but more often than not ending up giving impromptu critical analysis, especially if it was a piece he was particularly attracted to. Similarly, he tried to give the same treatment to pieces he was less than fond of, challenging himself to find something positive to say. He recognised that the visitors didn’t really want to sit and listen to him bitch about the work they had paid good money to see.

On quiet days, he was prone to doodle, especially when he was on the front desk. He would leave these doodles lying around, occasionally signing one he was especially proud of and slotting it into a random guide book, a pleasant surprise especially for anyone smart enough to recognise it for what it was.

Then there were the art snobs; the loud, mostly middle-aged business men who would come in whilst entertaining clients and parade about, throwing out casual and ill-informed comments. It was R’s favourite pass time to rip them apart. 

After all, what would a receptionist know of such matters? Just the thought of wiping the floor with these imbeciles made R chortle with glee, cheerfully relating his tales of success to Enjolras on the way home. Bless his husband, he tried to be disapproving, saying it was unwise to behave like that at work. But Enjolras could not suppress his smile, enjoying R’s enthusiasm.

This was good. This was more than good. It was their new normal and it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE!
> 
> I'm back from my adventures in the north, mostly unscathed.  
> I trust everyone had a great Christmas and that your hangovers on 1st January weren't too harsh.
> 
> If you are not aware of the existence of the Harry Potter Wizard's collection DVD boxset may I suggest you google it. I am the proud owner of one and I can assure you R would love it.
> 
> And of course R can't stay away from galleries too long...


	20. Gatherings and Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Aire go back to school

It was April when Enjolras finally received the permission from his doctors to apply to get his driving license back. He filled out the appropriate forms and sent them off to the DVLA, spending the following three weeks waiting anxiously for a response. He drove Aire to distraction, pacing and huffing and puffing, fretting that perhaps his form had been consumed by Royal Mail or, even worse, that his application had been refused.

He kept telling himself that there was no reason for his application to be refused. It had been six months since the accident and no further seizures had occurred. His memory wasn’t perfect but he was making do, had successfully adapted to his environment, and if the doctors thought he was ok to drive then surely that should be good enough for the government.

“Anyone would think you didn’t like our shared drive to work,” Aire teased him gently, privately relieved at how long it was taking. 

Enjolras might feel ready and the doctors might also be convinced that he was fit for the task, but Aire had serious reservations. The idea of Enjolras out there on the road just filled him with dread. It wasn’t Enjolras’s driving skills that worried him; he knew his husband had been an extremely capable and safe driver and had no doubt he would prove to be just the same when he finally got back behind the wheel. No, what gave him sleepless nights was all the other drivers on the road who weren’t so careful.

“I’d like to be able to take my car every so often,” Enjolras replied pragmatically, refusing to rise to the bait. He reached out to squeeze Aire’s hand.

“Besides, this way you get your Mondays back.”

In all honesty, Aire wasn’t all that fussed about having his Mondays back. He would much rather have his husband back, or at the very least have him safe, not hurtling along the motorway with only a sheet of metal between him and the outside world.

But he kept these thoughts to himself. He knew how much Enjolras wanted to get his independence back. So he forced his face into what he hoped was a convincing smile while secretly wishing that the form would continue to be lost for as long as possible.

Of course it couldn’t last. Permission was inevitably granted and Enjolras practically skipped to the garage to turn the engine over. Aire watched him go with amusement, suspecting that he would be back soon enough. Indeed, he slammed out of the garage less than five minutes later, his face like a thundercloud. After six months of doing nothing, the car battery was as flat as a pancake. 

It was nothing that a trip to Halfords couldn’t fix and as Enjolras was a named driver on the Clio, R reluctantly handed over his keys in the name of making his husband very happy indeed. 

“Of course you would remember how to drive a car!” R muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice as Enjolras smoothly put the car into gear and successfully negotiated it out of the garage and down the driveway.

“Our wedding day? You vaguely remember holding my hand and having to sit down. Countless hours involving your right foot extended however…”

He fell silent as Enjolras shot him a look. He knew it wasn’t Enjolras’s fault, that he couldn’t control what made sense in his head and what didn’t. But that didn’t stop it hurting. 

“I remember a bit more than that,” Enjolras half whispered into the awkward atmosphere of the car.

They travelled the rest of the way in silence.

+

Mondays had never been very popular to start with, but they swiftly became R’s least favourite day of the week. It was almost unbearable watching Enjolras drive off to work that first time. He spent the entire day in a state of anxiety, compulsively checking his phone and somehow successfully resisting the urge to ring Enjolras to see how he was doing.

At lunch time he was grateful when the guy remembered to call him, the sound of Enjolras’s voice cheerfully chattering down the line to him filled with empty words about how his day was going. Somehow Aire forced his voice to behave itself. He felt slightly better, knowing that Enjolras had at least paused to eat something, but the respite did not last long; his anxiety escalated once again as the time drew near for the drive home.

He knew it was stupid. He knew there was absolutely no reason to assume anything would happen. He knew it was ridiculous, the wave of relief that coursed through him when Enjolras’s car finally turned up their driveway that evening. 

“What was that for?” Enjolras let out a surprised squeak when Aire pulled him into a tight hug.

“What, am I not allowed to greet my man home from his hard day’s labour in the city? Shall I not be delighted that he has abandoned the shackles of his desk in favour of spending his evening with me?” Aire attempted to grin, guiding Enjolras by the shoulders back towards the sanctuary of the house. Enjolras let out a confused laugh.

“Really, R, Dorking is hardly a city.” He shook his head as he allowed himself to be steered towards the kitchen and his dinner. Now that Enjolras was home, sat laughing at the counter while R fussed about the kitchen, showing off and preparing dinner, _now_ he felt at ease and relaxed. Now he felt calm.

The sense of calm continued for the rest of the week. The following Monday, the anxiety started all over again.

+

“There’s a staff leaving do thing that I’ve been invited to. Richard in Accounts is retiring.” 

R dropped his car keys on the counter as he returned from one of his Saturdays at the gallery. Enjolras looked up from his laptop. It was one of those occasions when he shunned his study in favour of the kitchen. He said the light was better but really it was closer to the fridge and R was definitely not going to call him out on that. It was one of the few perks of post-accident Enjolras; this one remembered that food was a requirement a lot more than the one before.

R headed over to the fridge, an excuse to keep his gaze anywhere other than Enjolras, unsure how this news would be received.

“Oh right?” Damn. Enjolras sounded curious. That was never good. That was always bad because it usually was followed by…

“Sounds like a good idea. When is it?” 

Aire sighed, shutting the fridge door and turning to where Enjolras was regarding him with bright eyes. 

“Is this something I would be invited to?” 

Oh yes. Juliette, his boss, had been very insistent on this point. Richard had been working for the gallery for thirty years in a variety of different capacities before taking over the financial side of things about twelve years ago. He was one of those stalwarts of the tiny empire that was The Gallery and so royal invitations to his leaving gathering had been issued to everyone. It was the perfect opportunity to finally meet the infamous husband they had heard so much about, to put a face to the name, to the voice that occasionally rang on Saturdays to enquire what Aire wanted for dinner that day. He should definitely bring Enjolras.

“They’re, uh, rather excited to meet you, actually,” he admitted as he set out the chopping board, grabbing a knife from the block to dice some onions. He could feel Enjolras smirking at him across the room.

“Great. Put it on the calendar,” he ordered cheerfully.

+

It was Enjolras’s idea to arrange to stay with Jehan and Courf rather than drive all the way to Dorking and back. This turned out to be a great idea. 

“Are you sure about this?” Aire asked him for the hundredth time. Enjolras gave him a bland smile because they weren’t having this conversation again. Enjolras wanted to meet R’s colleagues and that was that.

“It won’t be like a JVJ event you know,” he warned, as if that would honestly change Enjolras’s mind. “It’s just dinner at a pub and then a few drinks.” Enjolras rolled his eyes in response.

“I’m glad it won’t be like a JVJ event. It means I might be able to visit the bathroom without being harassed by the press; what a novelty!” He kissed the pout from Aire’s lips.

“Will you please stop worrying? It’s going to be fine.”

Of course it was fine. Enjolras was a natural at this sort of thing. Admittedly, he hadn’t done much of it since the accident, but there had to be a first time for everything, and a few kindly souls from a local art gallery couldn’t do too much damage, surely.

As soon as they arrived, they were set upon by Yvonne and Desrine from Archiving, who immediately dragged Enjolras away for interrogation while Aire went to the bar. Enjolras went willingly and he was still smiling when R got back after a ridiculously long queue and bar staff who didn’t know the difference between spiced rum and navy rum, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

All the usual questions came out; what do you do, how did you guys meet, how did you know he was the one, etc etc. Enjolras managed to navigate these questions without too much difficulty. It was probably only R who could tell the difference between actual memory recall and stuff Enjolras had learnt parrot fashion; everyone else seemed completely enthralled and Enjolras visibly grew in confidence as he spoke with them.

They were a good and receptive audience, making all the right noises in all the right places, oohing and aahing over how long the two had known each other. A lot of the gorier details were left out for the sake of the good mood and jovial atmosphere, but the general overview of meeting at school, going their separate ways for Uni, before meeting up again by chance in London had Marcus (refectory) in tears.

Conversation eventually turned to other things as their meal arrived, a quick speech was made, first by Juliette and then by Richard himself. Then they moved on to a different bar where someone (Enjolras cast a suspicious look at R who feigned ignorance) had opened a tab and soon the spirits and cocktails were flowing freely.

“One thing I will miss,” Richard said regretfully as he finished another shot of vodka that had been pressed into his hands by Yvonne. “One thing I will miss very much is seeing all those up-and-coming artists they send us every so often.” He nodded mournfully, still gurning at the burning sensation in his mouth.

“Next month, for example. They’re sending us three Andre Tregustin portraits.” Instantly the table descended into chaotic babble as they all enthused about the impending display.

“You’ll have to pop back,” Desrine stated quite loudly, her eyes not entirely focussed and a lot of emphatic nodding followed from the rest of the group.

“What, _the_ Andre Tregustin?” R had been sitting, chatting to one of the guys who worked the gift shop, when his head snapped round in interest. “Short guy, wears big black glasses. Large tuft of hair about here.” He indicated just above his right eyebrow with the back of his hand while everyone stared at him dumbly.

“I know Andre. Went drinking with the guy in Warsaw,” he turned back to the person he had previously been chatting with, unaware that his outburst had brought the entire group to silence. 

“Nice bloke, but he can’t draw frogs to save his life.”

_That had been a good night. Breen had been buying. It was only supposed to be one drink. One drink to celebrate and then back to the hotel like good little boys, like they’d promised Cosette because Andre was new and what on earth had possessed Cosette, putting them in charge of the new boy?! Of course they’d gone out for more than one. Of course they’d gotten completely smashed and of course R had come up with that brilliant drinking game, even though he couldn’t quite remember the rules._

_All he remembered was that they’d had to draw something and then someone in the bar would have to judge whose drawing was best. The person who lost took a shot. Poor Andre._

Juliette observed this little exchange with an amused glint in her eye. She made her way over to where Enjolras was sipping his lime and soda, lost in thought, watching his husband.

“Tell me,” she said, slipping into the seat next to him, her head jerking over to where R was now doodling a sketch of Richard on the back of a menu. 

“Is he who I think he is?” She stared intently at Enjolras as though to riddle the truth from his gaze alone. He sucked on the straw until it gurgled in protest, his glass empty.

“With all due respect, I’ve been wondering that for years.”

+

“I’d really like to go.”

Enjolras had swung in the opposite direction from where he had been just after the accident. Quite the opposite of wanting to hide away from the world, wanting to shy away safe inside the glass walls of their home, now Enjolras was all about going out and meeting people. Spurred on by the success of the retirement party, now he wanted to brave something bigger. Now he wanted to go to that fucking school reunion.

“I really think it might help.”

It looked as though they would be going back to Surrey, after all this time.

+

Aire huffed a noise of irritation, more at himself than anything else, at the unwelcome and thoroughly melodramatic shiver that ran down his spine as Enjolras’s car swung through the gates of the school. He stared up at the old building; it seemed smaller than he remembered it.

“Remind me again why I’m here,” he grumbled, unbuckling his seatbelt and swinging the car door open. Enjolras shot him a fond grin as exited the car before swiftly walking round towards him, reaching out to straighten R’s collar. Aire had entirely refused to wear a tie, but had agreed to be manhandled into one of his suits and, after a certain amount of puppy-dog eyes from his husband, had even agreed to dig out one of his waistcoats.

“For once, I have a fair amount of memories to draw upon,” Enjolras replied wryly. “And nearly all of my favourite firsts happened here. It's where I met the love of my life, where we had our first kiss. My life changed in this building."

Aire couldn’t help but be engulfed by the look Enjolras gave him at that moment. It was so open. Enjolras didn’t know it, couldn’t know it, but he had plucked out a suit from a dustjacket at the back of the wardrobe that hadn’t been unzipped in six years, not since a cold October day in New York. He couldn’t possibly know what he looked like right now, standing in a chilly car park in Surrey. But then it had always been this way, Aire standing in shadow staring towards Enjolras’s light. 

He swallowed, physically repressing all the negativity nagging at him. Enjolras was right; this was where it all started. Whoever else was in there, well, fuck them. But if this made Enjolras happy then, heaven help him, he’d go in there and smile and make small talk and jump through hoops.

They walked up the stone steps to the main entrance where they were greeted, ticked off a list and then motioned towards the hall. Aire volunteered to go check their coats into the cloakroom, giving himself a few more moments to raise his mental walls, while Enjolras went to get the first round of drinks.

He didn’t recognise the guy checking coats which was a small relief, and he took a deep breath before stepping into the main hall for the first time in fourteen years. He cast an eye around the room, the portraits of old Head Teachers on the walls, the stage with its lectern and the ridiculous velvet curtains in school colours. It was the smell that got to him the most; echoes of dusty hymn books and over-polished floors. It filled his lungs, sending him back in time.

It was slightly bizarre, almost a surreal dream, to see his old school hall filled with adults clutching wine or beer glasses. There was a steady hum of calm chatter, punctuated with a laugh every so often, people clustered in little groups. He chewed on his lip, craning his neck trying to spot a flash of gold to signal Enjolras’s presence in the swirl of suits and dresses as former school chums attempted to make a good impression on people they hardly thought or cared about anymore.

Luckily he wasn’t holding a drink when someone collided with his shoulder. The figure turned to apologise, the words catching in her throat as her eyes widened and she recognised him. _Oh shit_. It had happened sooner than he hoped it might. One of his former classmates had spotted him.

“Oh my gosh! Grantaire?”

He took a deep breath, bracing for the expected sting of hearing that name inside these walls, but none came.

“Hi,” Nancy, Natalie, Naomi? 

“Natasha,” she smiled warmly at him, holding out her hand which, somewhat surprisingly, he accepted without much thought. Her fingers were delicate and wrong in his own palm and it suddenly struck him how little he shook other people’s hands these days.

“You’re looking well.” Her voice was falsely bright, her eyes a little too earnest. He forced a smile onto his own face to thank her and graciously return the compliment.

“It’s so lovely to see you, after all these years,” She paused as if wondering whether she should say more, but the pause itself said more than enough. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

Of course she would remember him, he cringed. Now that he thought about it he wondered how he could have possibly thought he might get away with it. He had been spoilt, living in anonymity for so long. But now he was in a room of raptors. Everyone in this room, he was prepared to bet, knew exactly who he was. He was that kid whose dad tried to kill him. Oh god, he needed Enjolras and he needed him now.

He cast a helpless look around the hall, searching for rescue but finding none, and he had no choice but to turn back to her, _Natasha_ , who was staring at him expectantly.

“I work at an art gallery in Dorking,” he answered truthfully and she nodded as though she knew exactly what he meant, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yourself?”

Well, the floodgates opened. Natasha had been extremely busy in the past fourteen years. She had been to some prestigious university, got her 2:1 in English, accidentally met the man of her dreams and was now living only five miles down the road with Geoffrey and their three adorable children, Genevieve, Antoine and Indiah. At least, that was R’s translation of events.

His left hand moved automatically to rub his jaw, while his brain wondered where the hell Enjolras was when you needed him. Or Combeferre for that matter. Wasn’t he supposed to be here somewhere too?

“Oh, and is that a wedding ring I see?” Natasha squealed, reaching forward to brush the metal on his fourth finger. “Is the lucky lady here tonight?” 

That was it, as far as Aire was concerned. The conversation was over. He seized upon Natasha’s question and started to openly search the crowd for his Lucky Lady, hoping that he was standing close enough to hear that exchange and R would be treated to the sight of Enjolras ripping someone apart for their bigoted assumptions.

Suddenly she grabbed his arm and it took an awful lot of effort on his part not to recoil at the sudden movement, the unexpected contact.

"Oh my god! You will never guess who else is here!" 

Aire couldn’t help but openly wince at her high-pitched tone of excitement but she didn’t appear to notice, her full attention being held by something over his right shoulder. As he started to turn, to see what it was, she grabbed him again, refusing to let him look and, really, they were going to have to talk about contact and personal space if she continued to touch him like that. 

"No, don't turn round. It's Enjolras!” Mercifully her voice had now dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. For a moment he stared at her blankly, trying to work out why she was making such a big deal out of spotting Enjolras of all people in the crowd. Obviously, she misread his expression.

“Surely you remember Enjolras! That guy you were friends with in year 11? You know,” her voice dropped even lower and she leaned forward as though imparting a great secret. “He went really odd after you left. Had a bit of a meltdown, shouted at the head teacher in assembly. Poor guy." 

R was going to be sick. It was far, far too hot in here, too full of people and this had been the worst idea ever. He couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to be talked into this. Unwelcome images filled his brain; Enjolras after April 7th. Enjolras alone. Enjolras having to face the music in school while he remained safely hidden away, medicated and protected up in Sheffield.

He was startled from that miserable train of thought by the woman leaning back slightly and waving brightly. 

"Enjolras,” she called out, her face arranged into a cat-like grin. “Look who I found for you!" 

Aire finally turned around. Had it only been ten minutes since he had last seen Enjolras? It felt like much longer. But there he was, in his damned wedding suit of all things, looking drop-dead delicious, clutching a lime and soda in one hand and (thank fuck) a beer in the other. R didn’t even care what type of beer as long as it was alcoholic.

Enjolras shot him a quizzical look, raising his eyebrow in silent communication. _Are you all right?_ Obviously R looked as bad as he felt. He jerked his head slightly, but it spoke volumes that, instead of plucking the drink from Enjolras’s hand, he instead remained rooted to the spot.

Natasha missed the exchange completely, looking between them both with an exasperated grin.

"Oh come on, now, surely you remember Grantaire! You guys were best friends!" R closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing whilst battling the desire to sink through the floor. When he opened them, Enjolras was looking at him with a strange expression. It was almost amusement.

Enjolras set both glasses down on a nearby table before holding out his right hand, a warm smile playing about his lips.

“Of course! Grantaire. I’m so sorry. Lovely to see you again.”

Grantaire gaped at him, finding his hand being shaken, of all things, by his husband who was quite obviously enjoying the joke at his expense. He recovered after a moment, shooting him a look that made it quite clear Enjolras would be paying for this later. 

“Well,” Natasha was barely able to contain her glee. “I guess I’ll leave you guys to catch up.”

“You’re a fucking arsehole and I hate you,” Aire growled as soon as she was out of earshot. Enjolras smiled at him fondly, handing over the beer which was grudgingly accepted.

“I’m sure she meant well,” he said dismissively. 

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the ‘lucky lady’ that I married – apparently she’s here somewhere.” He smirked as Enjolras’s expression turned distinctly stony.

+

“Well I’m bumping into everyone tonight!”

Combeferre turned to offer his apologies to the woman who had just knocked his elbow but she waved them off, smiling at him cheerfully. He vaguely recognised her, even though he was fairly certain they had never shared an actual class.

“Combeferre, isn’t it? Enjolras is over there.” The woman gestured over to where Enjolras stood with R over by the wall, and he couldn’t help but smile. She followed his gaze before turning back to him.

“Oh yes, that’s Grantaire,” she informed him knowledgably. “He was friends with Enjolras before you joined us in sixth form. I just reintroduced them.” Her voice was thick with pride and Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh at her, even though it wasn’t usually in his nature to be so unkind. But really, whatever had possessed her of such a ridiculous notion!

“Are you sure we speak of the same people?” He enquired. “Enjolras and Grantaire? The two men standing over there, one blonde, one brunette, both sharing drinks and talking easily, both with matching wedding rings?”

“I…” she faltered, somewhat unsure, looking back over at where the two men stood. Then, as if on cue, Enjolras leant forward, delicate fingers cupping a stubbled jaw in a familiar gesture he had performed many times over the years, before brushing a chaste but intimate kiss to the other man’s lips.

“Enjolras and Grantaire, who travelled round the world together, who got married in New York nearly six years ago with me as best man? That Enjolras and Grantaire?”

His eyes twinkled through his glasses as she gaped at him, suddenly lost for words.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she muttered before hurrying away. He chuckled before moving to join his friends.

+

The three friends stood in the corridor, examining the school photographs. They had already laughed at Enjolras and Combeferre in their prefect hats in the Sixth Form photo and now they were letting Combeferre scrutinise the Year 11 photo as if he would somehow fail to spot them, even though Enjolras had hardly changed a bit while R stuck out like a sore thumb with his mass of unruly black curls.

“This must have been taken in January,” Aire muttered, half to himself once Combeferre had let out a noise of triumph, pointing to the scrawny boy in the third row. “I’ve still got my cast on.”

Combeferre shot a look to Enjolras who shook his head just enough for Combeferre to get the idea. That was a story for another day.

“We look so young!” He turned back to Enjolras who, upon closer inspection, had changed a fair bit since those days. They all had.

It hit him in the gut then; when that photograph had been taken it was all before him; his mother’s death, college, Rhode Island, JVJ, London, the European tour, their wedding, their marriage, their life. He looked back at the photo and felt the earth disappear beneath him and Combeferre only just moved in time to catch him as his legs buckled.

“I’m ok,” he gasped, allowing them to gently lower him to the floor where they joined him to make it look less strange. “I just… fuck.”

“Yup,” Enjolras nodded, reaching out to take his hand, squeezing it tightly as though he would never let go.

They were back where it had all started and it felt as though hardly any time had passed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we are very nearly there, people. The end is nigh.


	21. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was not quite eight o’clock on Monday morning. They had woken unusually early, Aire kissing his way up Enjolras’s spine, between his shoulder blades before nipping gently at his neck, ignoring the muffled groan of protest.
> 
> “Who has sex on Mondays?” Enjolras muttered, rolling over and offering his neck to his husband’s attentions, enjoying how Aire hummed against his skin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate Chapter
> 
> Warning for death

It was not quite eight o’clock on Monday morning. They had woken unusually early, Aire kissing his way up Enjolras’s spine, between his shoulder blades before nipping gently at his neck, ignoring the muffled groan of protest.

“Who has sex on Mondays?” Enjolras muttered, rolling over and offering his neck to his husband’s attentions, enjoying how Aire hummed against his skin. 

“We do,” he replied cheekily, pressing their bodies together, encircling Enjolras completely with his arms. Enjolras shivered as Aire deliberately nuzzled against his skin, his beard scratching deliciously against the soft tender expanse of his collarbone.

“That’s mean,” he moaned, eyes closed as goosebumps rose all over his skin at the sensitivity. “You know what that beard of yours does to me.” Aire chuckled darkly, licking along Enjolras’s carotid artery. 

“You love my beard,” Aire whispered, his breath cool against Enjolras’s skin. And really, Enjolras couldn’t argue with that. 

Aire had started to grow his beard just over a year ago and it had certainly taken Enjolras a while to get used to but now he wouldn’t be without it.

At first there had been a slight political discussion about its appearance, with Courfeyrac cheekily dubbing Aire “Mr Twit” for a couple of months. Then there had been the light-hearted row over the beard trimmer Enjolras had given Aire for Christmas which lay abandoned in a cupboard in their bathroom. R had told Enjolras in no uncertain terms to stop trying to oppress the beard and force it to conform to societal expectations of what a beard should look like. This beard would be free and that was that.

When Aire had discovered the delicious noises Enjolras produced when he rubbed it over the other man’s sensitive skin, the way he squirmed beneath his touch, he determined to use this valuable piece of information against Enjolras at every given opportunity.

He employed it now, nuzzling against Enjolras’s neck while the man clung to him desperately, whimpering as Aire’s hands slipped lower, ghosting between his thighs.

Enjolras lost himself in the sensations of his husband.

+

Quite a lot had changed in the four years since Enjolras’s accident. About a month after the reunion, just as Enjolras went back to work full time and it felt like the world was beginning to return to a semblance of normality, a tabloid ran a “tell-all exclusive” on R.

Articles about the artist were hardly anything unusual; every couple of months or so there would be some publication or other, especially if he had a new series of work being displayed or JVJ was holding an event somewhere. Usually these articles were speculative and inaccurate. This one, however, was different.

Aire was given twenty-four hours’ notice from Cosette that his whole life was about to change dramatically and there was nothing anyone could do about it. His secret was out.

The following day when the paper hit the newsstands it felt like the world had gone mad. The internet seemed to go into meltdown at the announcement that R’s true identity had been discovered and that he was a British man living in Sussex with his husband. There followed a lot of inaccurate details regarding his schooling, speculation regarding a drug overdose in Italy six years before, not to mention various assumptions regarding his choice to stay out of the limelight, most of them surrounding suppositions of his mental health.

Enjolras had been very quiet indeed while reading the article in full and if Aire hadn’t felt nauseous with horror, then the sight of Enjolras’s face changing colours like a traffic light would have been laughable. It finally settled on blazing red as he slammed the paper down on the kitchen counter in disgust.

“A drug overdose! Of all the outrageous bullshit!” he spat, rising to his feet in fury. Aire rubbed his forehead, trying to ward off the rising headache.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “Everyone that matters knows the truth.” He could tell from the gut-freezing look Enjolras gave him that no one was going to get off lightly in this matter.

“That’s not the point, R and you know it. Your poor grandparents! All their friends are going to think the grandson she loves so much is a junkie and I won’t have it!”

Aire’s stomach plummeted. He hadn’t even thought about the casual acquaintances, or how this whole thing was going to affect his grandparents or his friends. He sat down heavily, his legs suddenly unable to support him as the full horror of this situation hit him fully. At that moment he was certain he would never leave the house again.

“Don’t worry, Aire,” Enjolras was beside him, gentle hands pressing reassuringly against his skin, his voice calm and grounding. “I won’t let them get away with it.”

In the end, they unplugged their landline phone because it wouldn’t stop ringing. They watched with a certain amount of apprehension as the paparazzi set up camp at the end of their driveway, the long-distance lenses glinting in the sunlight, hoping to capture a photo of the artist in his home.

Over the next few weeks, a number of follow-up articles appeared in other papers and magazines. Now that people knew what to look for there seemed to be no stopping them. A lot of these articles focussed on Aire’s private life, especially once the link was made between Grantaire and the murder-suicide in Surrey fifteen years before. 

The day that particular article appeared, Enjolras confiscated R’s phone and hid the laptop, effectively preventing his husband from reading what was an unbelievably intrusive, patronising and frankly disgusting article questioning the effects of his mother’s death on the “wild artist”.

That seemed to be a popular theme in the tabloids who just couldn’t get enough of the stories that started to creep out of the woodwork from R’s trips across Eastern Europe immediately after his graduation. Aire was unwilling to confirm which of the stories were true, which ones were nearly true and which ones were wholly false, advising Enjolras to focus on the bigger issues rather than on whether or not he may have gotten drunk to the point of alcohol poisoning with Murtagh Breen in Gdansk.

For three weeks Aire went into hiding, not going to work, cancelling his appointments with friends and spending the day either in his studio or in bed. Enjolras was unwilling to take leave, especially after so recently returning to work, but he found himself staying at home for that first week, if only to try and take R’s mind off the outside world for a bit. He worried greatly about the effect all this would have on Aire’s mood, especially as he was so fiercely private. There were disturbing reports from Sheffield that R’s grandparents had been door stepped by various unscrupulous journalists who had no problems harassing an elderly couple in the name of a good story.

Plans were swiftly set in motion for Jim and Elsa to go on holiday with Enjolras and Aire booking them on a cruise, arranging for them to travel down to Southampton at the first opportunity. At least on a ship in the middle of the Mediterranean they would be safe from further intrusions.

That was perhaps the thing that upset Aire the most about the whole damn thing; the inconvenience to everyone around him. In truth, he had been surprised that his identity had remained secret for so long. Now that the moment had finally come, now that the world was thoroughly gorging itself by consuming every available scrap of information about him, it was almost a relief. The worst had happened and now they just had to deal with the fallout.

But he sincerely regretted the misery it brought to his friends and family. He understood from various emails from his colleagues that the art gallery had been swamped with people. After a certain amount of consideration, Aire decided to hand in his resignation. It was his biggest regret because he had enjoyed his months there and had made some good friends but he couldn’t imagine returning to work now. The very thought made him want to curl up in bed and never leave.

Enjolras had stopped talking about work when he returned home which R took to mean that their days were being interrupted continually. Enjolras knew it only made Aire quiet and withdrawn to hear about the telephone calls, the letters, the people loitering outside the office. Enjolras and Bahorel were both terrifying enough to keep even the most curious from actually entering the office, however that did not prevent a certain number of people from remaining outside in the hope that they would spot the Blond Boy in the Painting, if not the Wild Artist himself. 

One good thing, at least, had come out of the whole wretched situation. It had started with a postcard from Breen who was out in America staging a drama. It simply said “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” Enjolras stuck it on the fridge. What followed was a steady stream of messages of support, both privately and publically from various factions of his industry, even those not necessarily associated with JVJ.

Bloggers took to the internet, publishing their thoughts on the revelation of R’s identity. A lot of people had been those who had, unwittingly or otherwise, worked with the artist over the years in various galleries around the world. They spoke of R’s work ethic, his manners, and his ability to quietly get on with it. 

Some wrote about how they had been contacted by the press, by people sniffing out any hint of a scandal. They pointed out that it was no wonder R had chosen to keep his identity secret considering this is what he had to look forward to. These articles and blogs and messages of support, though somewhat overwhelming, were welcome in the face of so much aggressive interest in his life. 

By no means was there universal support; they received more than one angry, rude and aggressive letter from people who seemed to think it was their divine right to tell R that not only was he living a sinner’s lifestyle but that his work was the product of the devil. In the end Cosette arranged for an agent to sift through their post before it was passed on to them, to filter out the very worst of the abuse, in some cases even having to pass letters to the police. 

But for every troll, for every abusive email or blog post, there were at least ten people shouting their support, calling to leave the poor guy alone and sending warm messages of appreciation of his work.

There were also a number of websites and forums dedicated to the belief that this was all a ruse and that R was still a mystery figure; that this man ousted by the press was a sacrifice offered because someone had gotten too close to the truth. Aire thought this was hilarious and enjoyed lurking on these forums and monitoring their ongoing discussions, occasionally posting something inflammatory under a pseudonym, much to Enjolras’s exasperation.

“Really, you shouldn’t encourage them!” he admonished, though secretly pleased to see his husband taking an interest in something for once, rather than hiding in his studio.

“Rubbish! It’s creative and keeps people wondering and I wish them every success in their endeavours,” he retaliated with a lopsided grin.

“But you know you’re not a woman in New Orleans whose husband doesn’t know you’re a world famous artist!” Enjolras read over his shoulder, his face incredulous that anyone could believe such a thing. Then he caught sight of Aire’s smile, the twinkle in his eyes, and he groaned, knowing the battle was lost.

Eventually the furore died down. The press found something else to talk about and the flood of articles dried up, much to everyone’s relief. His grandparents were able to return to their Sheffield home and the paparazzi abandoned their posts.

“Fickle fortune,” Aire muttered, watching the last van drive away, though not without relief. Perhaps now he could start to get his life back. The whole episode had been exhausting and, for everyone’s sanity, they decided to take a holiday to Vancouver for three weeks to recover. When they returned it was with the hope that the drama was finally behind them.

Thanks to his husband’s frankly terrifying legal skills the paper that had first published the “exclusive” had been forced to issue a full page spread of apologies and corrections. There had also been a monetary settlement which was donated in its entirety to both Cancer Research and various domestic violence charities. 

Of course things had changed forever. He found himself being recognised in public. He gradually became accustomed to being stopped in the street, to being asked to sign a variety of things by giggling and agog members of his fanbase. He readily posed for selfies while shopping in the supermarket and doodled on napkins while out for dinner.

Now that he was “out” in a manner of speaking, and out of a job on top of everything else, he agreed with Cosette to increase his work with JVJ. She encouraged him to put together a series of lectures even though he found it improbable that anyone would want to hear them. He was the only one surprised when they proved to be a sell-out success. Enjolras was delighted to see R back to doing what he loved. 

As the clock struck midnight and they moved into another New Year, both hoped more than anything that their lives would now take a more peaceful turn. It had been an exhausting year by any stretch of the imagination.

Sadly it was not to be. 

+

It had been a Thursday afternoon in May when Jim took up the grocery list, checked that it was all they needed before kissing his wife on the cheek and heading out to the shops. He never came back. Instead two nice officers from South Yorkshire police knocked on Elsa’s door three hours later. 

Enjolras had still been at work when Aire got the phone call. Initially he couldn’t understand what his grandmother was trying to say, but he understood well enough when someone else, one of the officers, took over and explained that Mr Griffiths had collapsed while out shopping. Some passers-by had stopped to help and an ambulance had been called but he had been pronounced dead by the paramedics. 

Aire listened to all this with a detached calm, assuring the officer that he would be driving up to be with his grandmother immediately. He thanked the officer before terminating the call. He stood in the silence of his house, wondering how on earth he would ever move forward from this moment.

+

Aire took his grandfather’s death very hard. The man had been a tower of strength to him for so many years, leading him deftly through some very difficult times with infinite patience. They were advised that he had suffered an aortic aneurysm. It was supposed to be a comfort that he was dead before he hit the ground but somehow Aire struggled to see it that way. 

There was not a lot of time for mourning. The funeral needed to be arranged and R was already more than intimately acquainted with the number of tasks required after someone’s death. He felt no more equipped in his thirties to deal with this than he had at eighteen, however having Enjolras by his side, along with their friends, made it infinitely easier. 

Jehan insisted on travelling up to Sheffield to join him and Aire was grateful for it. Jehan had always been one of Elsa’s favourites. Elsa’s health had been increasingly fragile and it helped to have someone familiar, someone she trusted, around the house. 

The funeral had been a gentle affair, a fitting tribute to the man so admired by his community. At the wake, Aire found himself shaking hands with a seemingly never-ending stream of people wishing to pass on their sincerest condolences, who wanted him to know how much they respected his grandfather. There were men who had known Jim in his boxing days and the old boys from down the pub. Aire thanked them all profusely for their kindness.

Afterwards, once the last of the paperwork had been done, when the mourners had retreated, there remained just a strange, sad emptiness.

It was clear Elsa would not be able to remain alone in the house in Sheffield. Aire wanted her to come and live with them in Sussex but she wouldn’t hear of it. Apart from the fact that their house was not suited to the needs of someone in their eighties, Elsa was a determined spirit, very like her grandson in that respect. She did agree, however, to move into sheltered accommodation, seeking a place a few miles from the house in Sussex so that they would be nearby.

It had been Jehan’s idea, to replace the blue door of the Sheffield house. It was swapped out for a new one in a more neutral colour, while the original was removed down to Sussex, into R’s studio, where he turned it into a sculpture. He set it into the ground with a plaque dedicating it to the memory of his grandfather, that it should stand as a reminder of all the love and happiness shared in that house. Enjolras and Aire invited all their friends to a party, a grand unveiling of sorts, with Elsa as the guest of honour.

“It’s lovely, my lad,” she said, squeezing his hand as everyone milled around the grounds, admiring the door and talking amongst themselves.

“Your granddad would have thought it was daft, of course,” Aire couldn’t help but laugh at her brutal honesty and she smiled at him, eyes crinkling with tears. “But he was very proud of you. You know that.” She reached up to rub his cheek, as if to rub the truth through his skin.

+

That had been just over three years ago. Life had, thankfully, resumed a steady pace. Elsa came round a couple of Sundays a month for dinner. The residential complex where she lived had quite an active social calendar and they were happy to hear of the coach trips and quiz nights that she frequently took part in.

The reputation of the law firm in Dorking grew. At Bahorel’s suggestion, they were able to take on apprentices and trainees. Enjolras took a step back from his work, instead taking on the role of teacher, imparting his knowledge to the keen young novices. 

Aire was thrilled to see Enjolras enjoying his work so thoroughly. He had struggled a fair bit in the aftermath of his accident and it had taken some time for him to settle back into his job. It was comforting for Aire to see him so comfortable, so happy with his career.

Meanwhile R continued his work with JVJ, although he respectfully requested that his trips abroad be kept as short as possible, something that Cosette tried to accommodate as much as she was able. 

Now, as he lay in bed with Enjolras, he counted his blessings. Only yesterday he had returned from three weeks away in Spain. Their reunion had been sweet, the drive home from the airport almost unbearable.

They had tumbled in to bed together, at first too hurried, too lost to slow down, fucking urgently as though it had been months rather than weeks. Later they had lain together, enjoying the moment, enjoying the sensation of being together as if they all the time in the world. Aire had taken his time, wanting to kiss his husband from head to toe, delighting in how Enjolras still squirmed beneath his touch even though they were nearly ten years married.

And now it was Monday and really Enjolras needed to get up, needed to shower and go to work. Instead he indulged Aire, allowed himself to be distracted by reverent kisses, to the sweet sensation of R’s beard against his thigh as the man tentatively licked and mouthed at the head of his cock.

R longed to flip Enjolras onto his front, to lose control completely and just fuck him into the mattress, but he successfully overcame the sensation, instead more than happy to prepare him slowly with his fingers, to crook them, to brush teasingly at his prostate, to frustrate the man to the point of begging before finally giving in and fucking him, even then moving slowly, far too slowly if Enjolras’s babbling and swearing was to be believed.

When they both came, Enjolras groaning while R stroked him through it, thrusting forward a few times more before being overcome by his own orgasm a few moments later, they lay together panting and sweaty and happy to be wrapped up in each other, they both felt completely at peace.

Eventually they found the energy to move. Eventually they dragged themselves from their bed and into the shower. They washed each other’s hair and afterwards R was content to lie on the bed, wrapped in a towel, while he watched Enjolras don his suit.

They breakfasted together, the radio chattering away in the background while R doodled his daily drawing for the fridge and Enjolras swallowed down the last of his coffee. He was just reaching for his car keys, preparing to bestow a final kiss on his husband, when the phone rang.

Aire answered it with a cheerful hello, waving at Enjolras as he moved towards the front door. He was just about to leave when something made him stop and turn around. Aire was still on the phone but something was wrong. 

“Yes. I understand. Thank you.”

Aire put the receiver down but he didn’t turn around, his shoulders fixed and hunched.

“Aire?” Enjolras reached out his hand tentatively, a cold chill running through his body.

“What is it?”

Silence was his only reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks to my wonderful beta Cat who has been carrying me and listening to my moaning and weeping through these final chapters.
> 
> The next chapter will be the last chapter.


	22. Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for character death

When Aire was told his mother had died, along with the sadness he remembered distinctly a sense of relief. He remembered his grandmother shaking him awake, standing over his bed in her nightgown, her hair in curlers and a pink hairnet holding them in place. At eighteen he slept heavily, especially if he had been up half the night reading or painting. She had been very straightforward with her words. The hospital had rung; his mother had passed away during the night. And that was that. 

The following days had passed in a haze of sadness and Enjolras. The funeral had been an intimate affair. He had been dressed in his first suit, sitting at the front of the church wedged between his grandmother and his boyfriend whose warm hand kept him from floating too far away in his head while the priest droned on anonymously about his mother’s life, carefully skirting round the manner of her death.

There had been a small crowd of unfamiliar faces, friends of the family he was told, most of whom shook hands with his grandparents, murmuring their heartfelt condolences, giving him pitying glances. He had hated every second.

And so his mother went into the ground and life went back to the normal he had been cultivating since moving to Sheffield.

He had never spared a thought for his father. He had never once, in all these years, paused to wonder who had organised that funeral, whether he had been buried or cremated, whether anyone had bothered to attend it. His feelings towards that man were a locked cupboard of anger and confusion that he kept tight inside, ignored and neglected. Now those feelings threatened to break loose.

He sat on the bed in his late grandmother’s flat at the residential complex she had, until two weeks ago, inhabited. The phone call from the warden on that Monday morning advising that Mrs Griffiths had passed away during the night had brought back the memories of his mother’s death nearly eighteen years before. More than anything, it was a punch to the gut to realise that his mother had been dead for so long when it felt like only a few months ago. Sitting still, he could feel the passage of time rushing beneath his feet, powerless to do anything but witness its passing.

He was surrounded by the soft scent of digestive biscuits and face powder. On the dressing table, her brush and mirror rested on top of the lace covering. Not a thing was out of place. She might have only stepped out of the room. Her slippers were set neatly in a pair at the end of the bed. He found his cheeks raising slightly into a small smile as he thought of all the slippers she had bought for him over the years, trying to discourage his terrible habit of wandering around in bare feet.

On the side were a few photographs. There was an old photo of his mother clutching a baby Grantaire, a shy and slightly lost look to her smile as she gazed up, as though questioning the photographer about what exactly she was supposed to do with the baby in her arms. She had a typical 1980’s perm, or it could even have been natural curls which would certainly explain where he got his own wild locks from, he couldn’t quite remember. The mother of his teenage years had hair that had been cut severely short.

There were a few photographs of a young, knock-kneed Grantaire, including one of him clutching a bright yellow bucket and spade on a beach somewhere. He didn’t remember that photo being taken. He could see that he was frowning into the sunshine, his hair all askew where the seaside breeze had caught it.

In a frame that he and Enjolras had given to Elsa for Christmas a few years before was a photograph taken on his grandparent’s golden wedding anniversary. R had insisted they pause momentarily in the lobby of the hotel where the dinner was being held so that he could snap a good photograph of them all in their finery before they went in and were lost to the crowd of friends that had gathered. His grandfather wasn’t looking at the camera, his interest caught by something over Aire’s shoulder, but his grandmother’s full attention was on the photographer, her smile tight where she had obviously ordered her husband to stop fussing and smile.

In a big silver frame on the left was a photo of him, Enjolras, and his grandparents which had been taken on their wedding day. He couldn’t resist reaching forward to pick this photo up, to study it. He was struck by how similar he was to his grandfather, how they shared the same awkward stance when cornered into posing for a photo. His grandmother positively beamed at the camera, her arms wrapped tightly round Enjolras and R. It was a happy picture and yet R felt a horrible pain in his chest. Nobody could have known when this photo was taken that there was less than a decade left together; that in ten years’ time half the people in that photo would be gone.

He gathered up these precious memories and placed them gently in one of the boxes on the floor.

Next he pulled open the draw of the bedside table which was where he found his grandmother’s wedding ring, engagement ring and eternity ring. She always took these off just before she went to sleep, keeping them in a little dish in the drawer for safekeeping. Enjolras had cautioned her against this, warning that they could be stolen, but she had snorted with amusement, patted his head affectionately and continued to ignore him. The sight of them nearly started the tears again.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sensation of his phone ringing in the pocket of his jeans. Knowing without looking at the screen that it was Enjolras, he ignored it, instead emptying the contents of the drawer onto the bed and sifting through the pile of notes, receipts, mints, unidentified pills and other miscellaneous items that could always be found in a bedroom drawer. After establishing that none of the pieces of paper were anything more important than a forgotten shopping list, he removed most of the contents to the bin bag before closing the drawer and moving over towards the wardrobe.

He already had two boxes of clothes ready to go to the charity shop from where he had emptied the chest of drawers, but he was unprepared for the contents of the wardrobe. Swinging open the right hand door, he was confronted with a whole rack of his late grandfather’s shirts. The discovery knocked the breath from his lungs as he stared in disbelief, a familiar and lost scent of tool sheds and oil filtering from the carefully preserved clothes.

He continued to ignore the buzzing in his pocket, probably Enjolras again, not taking the hint. Instead, he took a very deep breath, unhooking each hanger and carefully folding the shirts before putting them in the charity shop bag. 

Tugging a hand through his curls, he turned his attention to a few boxes on the top shelf of the wardrobe. He reached up to remove them, unsettling a small amount of dust which suggested they had been sitting there since his grandmother moved in. From the labels they contained more photographs and he determined to take these home with him and go through them later. With a sigh he shut the door of the now empty wardrobe.

His phone emitted a single, almost petulant buzz from where it lay ignored in his pocket, signifying a text message. Finally, he wrestled the damn thing free to flick quickly through the missed calls. There were three from Enjolras and one, the most recent, from Bahorel along with a text message.

_Enjolras says he’s sorry._

Aire stared down at it unimpressed. Getting Bahorel involved was a smart move by Enjolras but not one that he was in the mood to be affected by right now. Besides, it was likely Enjolras didn’t even know what he was apologising for.

It took him a couple of trips to move everything to the car. He popped his head into the warden’s flat, advising that he would be arranging for the removal of furniture in the next couple of days. The warden gave him one of those compassionate smiles of thanks and he bid a hasty retreat before she could offer him another cup of tea.

Having dropped off the bag of clothes at the charity shop, he sat in the car for a bit staring at his phone, knowing that really he should reply to Bahorel at the very least.

He wasn’t angry with Enjolras, not really. Yes, the man had incredibly poor timing, but his suggestion had been well-intended. One of Marjorie’s many letters of correspondence with her son had been received the day before, along with a message of condolence and an apology for their inability to attend Elsa’s funeral. In it, she renewed her invitation for both Enjolras and Aire to go to Australia to visit.

“We really should go, R,” Enjolras had said. “We’ve spent all this time in England. It would be nice to go to Australia and see my family.”

Of course Aire had taken it the wrong way. His grandmother had just died. He was feeling completely wretched and isolated and alone and on top of all that his husband wanted to drag him to the other side of the world.

The worst part was there hadn’t even been a row. It could so easily have escalated into shouting, with R storming down to his studio or with Enjolras slamming out of the house and off to work. One of the lasting effects of Enjolras’s accident was it left him prone to fits of temper on his bad days; days when he struggled with his memory recall, when the words wouldn’t come and he got frustrated. These bouts usually ended with him locking himself in his study for a couple of hours, or with Aire hiding in his studio. Then, once they had both calmed down, one would seek out the other, coaxing them out of their hiding place with apologies, tempting them back to their bedroom with kisses.

But not this time. This time there had been no raised voices, no banging doors. Instead, Aire had taken a deliberate sip of his coffee and looked Enjolras straight in the eye.

“Well, as there aren’t any more members of my family left to keep us here, perhaps you should book the next flight out.”

Enjolras had tried to apologise, had tried to explain that he hadn’t meant it like that, that he’d loved Elsa and Jim dearly, as though they were his own grandparents. Aire had remained in stony silence, before leaving to go and clear out the flat. He left without kissing Enjolras goodbye. Worse than that, he left without taking his meds.

He stared down at his phone, trying to ignore the empty echo in his chest. He knew his grandmother would have given him hell for behaving like this, for ignoring his husband and his friends and for skipping his meds. But she wasn’t here anymore. He was alone. He chucked the phone into the glove compartment before turning the engine over and heading for home.

+

Aire could hear Enjolras moving around downstairs, could hear the hum of the radio or the television as it muttered empty words. He shut out the sound, concentrating on the contents of the boxes spread out on the bed in front of him.

Most of them, much as he was loathe to say it, could go in the bin. There was his graduation photograph for a start; that could definitely go. Judging by the evidence, his grandparents insisted on taking a photo of every hotel room they ever stayed in. Accompanying these were shots of anonymous landscapes, mostly taken out of coach windows, blurred with movement. They may have meant something to Jim and Elsa but they were rendered meaningless now.

His grandmother had also apparently taken the same photograph every Christmas for about thirty years, depicting his grandfather at the kitchen table in an array of pringle jumpers and paper hats out of a cracker, getting slightly older in every one. Teenage Aire was in two of these photographs, wearing a green hat in the first one and a red hat in the second, but amazingly the same paint-spattered t-shirt. Aire put these ones to one side, his artistic streak tingling as he toyed with the idea of making something from them. 

The last box contained Jim and Elsa’s wedding photos from 1951. The photos were in excellent condition, so much so they looked as though they had only been taken ten years ago rather than over fifty. Only the long sleeves on Elsa’s wedding dress and the slightly unfashionable cut of Jim’s suit hinted at the true age of these photographs.

As Aire stared down at his smiling grandparents, looking so unbelievably young and happy, with their whole lives ahead of them, he wondered what the hell was the point of it all. He looked up, staring around his bedroom, at the pile of books stacked by his bed, the photos on their chest of drawers, along with a couple of little ornaments and knick-knacks. His mind wandered down the stairs to the rest of the house, to the shelves and cabinets and walls crammed with hundreds of items, books, paintings, sculptures, curios, trifles and baubles they had collected, been gifted or had bought over the years. He thought of the stuff with which they had filled their lives during the past ten years. Who would go through it all when they were gone? 

Aire had never believed in life after death. With a shiver and a tremendous force of effort, he attempted to drive out the unwelcome memory of lying on a bedroom floor, that empty feeling as he slipped out of consciousness. He remembered his foolish, empty brag to Courfeyrac, years ago in the safety of a London pub.

_There’s nothing there. No blinding lights, no St Peter with a scroll. Just nothing._

+

Enjolras sat on the sofa in the living room, not paying attention to the news, his eyes glazed as his mind zoned out, his thoughts trailing up the stairs to where his husband was hiding out in their bedroom. He was feeling unbelievably lost.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had told him he should try to talk to R, that he shouldn’t leave the man to stew, especially not at the moment. So far his efforts were unsuccessful. Conversely, Bahorel and Jehan had told him to give R some space, that he would come round in time but that right now he was in mourning and just needed to be left alone. That wasn’t going very well either. He knew what Aire was like; if he gave the man too much space it would seem as though he was ignoring him and that was the last thing Enjolras wanted.

He looked up at the clock on the wall by the fire place. He would give it another half hour and then he would just have to risk pissing Aire off a bit more by forcing them to have a conversation because silence and hiding was getting them nowhere.

In the end, he didn’t have to wait. Aire appeared in the living room about ten minutes later, looking pale and drawn. Enjolras stared at him for a second before springing off the sofa and striding purposefully towards him. Aire started back, slightly caught off guard by the sudden movement, before relaxing when Enjolras pulled him in for a tight hug.

“I love you,” Enjolras’s voice was muffled by Aire’s jumper but he heard it nonetheless, felt the words against his skin. Aire sank his head down onto Enjolras’s shoulder, almost sighing with relief at how good it felt to be in his arms. It was stupid; he wasn’t alone. He had Enjolras.

“I love you too. I’m sorry.” He kissed the side of Enjolras’s head, breathing in deep the scent of his warm skin. After a moment, he moved to break away, but he didn’t go far, moving back just enough so he could look into his husband’s eyes.

Now that he had Enjolras up close, he could see the dark shadows circling his eyes, could see where the corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly. Enjolras was in mourning too. His heart ached slightly but he took a steadying breath.

“I think going to Australia is a good idea.”

+

In all fairness, Enjolras’s parents couldn’t have been more welcoming. The house in Frankston was within easy reach of Melbourne where Enjolras’s father worked. Marjorie set them up in the guest suite, entreating them to make themselves at home. The first few days were lost to jetlag but once they were full recovered and acclimatised, they began to enjoy being shown around.

They did all the usual touristy things, visiting the Sealife Aquarium, the Melbourne Museum and the Melbourne Zoo. They went to barbeques with the neighbours who were all curious to meet the son they had heard so much about. They were pleasant people, easy to get on with, and both Aire and Enjolras found themselves having a great time and relaxing in easy company.

Enjolras and his parents did a lot of talking, especially him and his mother. Aire left them to it, more than happy to retire to bed, only waking briefly when his husband snuck in and a kiss was pressed to his forehead. He was happy for Enjolras, happy that his husband was happy.

They were out in Victoria for two months before returning home to England. At the airport, Enjolras’s mother squeezed them both tightly whilst barely holding herself together. She wished them a safe journey and for them not to leave it so long next time.

Enjolras held Aire’s hand very tightly until forced to let go as they went through security.

+

Two weeks before Christmas, Enjolras and R were sitting on the sofa, allegedly watching a film, but it was clear Enjolras’s mind was elsewhere. His head lay on R’s chest, apparently relaxed, but R could practically feel the cogs of Enjolras’s brain whirling at full speed. He flicked the film onto pause.

“Come on, out with it,” he coaxed, moving to sit up, half expecting Enjolras to groan and deny there was anything wrong. He brushed a warm hand across Enjolras’s shoulder in comfort and reassurance, to show that he was listening. Enjolras looked up at him with big eyes, slightly cloudy with his thoughts.

“Mum asked if we wanted to go out to Australia again,” he began, his face crinkled slightly with a frown. Aire waited patiently, knowing there was more to come.

“Not just for a holiday. For longer.”

Enjolras looked up at Aire, his face betraying how much this had been on his mind. He didn’t look nervous exactly, just puzzled, conflicted. He obviously found the idea attractive.

“Oh,” Aire said lightly, his own mind beginning to spin through a number of possibilities. Enjolras sighed, as though deciding something. He climbed off the sofa to fetch his laptop from the side, before sitting back down on the sofa, angling the laptop so they could both see it.

“She’s been sending me links to houses that are for sale. Some of them are really nice. There’s plenty of land so you could build another studio. Quite a few of them have swimming pools,” Enjolras flicked to one such property, a bungalow set in a spacious amount of land, with an open plan living space and a neat pool with a view across a valley. Evidently Enjolras and his mother had been talking about this for quite some time.

“The thing is, my dad is turning sixty next year. They’re both getting on and I’ve barely seen them in the last ten years.” He stopped, as though aware that his voice was escalating in volume. He took a deep, steadying breath before starting again. 

“He said he was willing to sponsor us for a Temporary Long Stay Work visa. I could work as a consultant for his firm while you could continue with JVJ.”

Enjolras snapped the laptop shut purposefully, setting it to one side so he could take R’s hands, pressing them between his palms. Aire looked at him, temporarily lost for words by what he was hearing and how earnest Enjolras looked in that moment. He understood of course. Enjolras wanted to be close to his family. 

Aire tried to think of something to say, something that would successfully encapsulate everything he felt; how much he loved Enjolras, how he completely understood the need to be nearer to his family, how much he missed his own more than anything, especially now that they were no longer with him. That if it would make Enjolras happy, he would follow him to the ends of the earth.

But before he could say any of this, Enjolras had moved onto his knees so that he was leaning forward, looking Aire straight in the eye with an expression bordering on desperation across his face.

“It doesn’t have to be forever. We can come back to England whenever you like.”

Aire silenced him with a kiss. He felt Enjolras lean into him, allowing the kiss to deepen. He brought his hands up to run them across the man’s cheeks. Eventually, though regretfully, he broke the kiss to give his final answer.

“I have a few stipulations before we up sticks and move to the other side of the world,” he said lightly.

“Firstly, we are _not_ living with your parents. We either buy a property before we move out there or we don’t go at all.” He waited for Enjolras to nod his agreement before moving on.

“Secondly, and this is really important,” he looked gravely at Enjolras who stared back at him steadily, a calm seriousness in his eyes that almost cracked Aire’s façade, but he managed to hold it together.

“Can we get a cat?”

Enjolras’s face broke into confusion and then laughter before playfully slapping his husband’s arm in retaliation.

“What? I’ve always wanted a cat!” Aire protested, fighting off the onslaught before dissolving into fits of laughter that Enjolras couldn’t help but echo.

“Yes, we can get a damn cat!”

+

It was a bit cliché, maybe, in that it was all open plan, with creaky fly-screen doors and a nice little pool in the back garden. But it was spacious and private and came with a lot of associated land. Already they had been in contact with an architect who would be able to design some studio buildings for R. Until then, he was working in one of the spare bedrooms.

The house was forty-five minutes away from Enjolras’s parents and you could tell they were both thrilled just to have them in the same country, never mind having them so close by.

It was a blank canvas. Enjolras looked round their new home as it struck him that they could be happy there. They could build a life there. He turned to look at R, to see what he thought and he couldn’t help but smile at the way R was poking in cupboards and trying door handles, exploring. He could almost see that brilliant mind whirring at high speed, planning and plotting, already projecting his ideas onto the walls.

“What do you think?” He asked gently. R sucked his teeth in response before planting a kiss on a surprised Enjolras.

“I think Jehan may well never forgive us. Ever.”

+

At the Adoption centre, Enjolras marched up and down, looking at all the cats sleeping or staring back at him. Aire was somewhere behind him, chatting with one of the members of staff. Enjolras had left him to it.

He was drawn towards a young tabby cat curled up in a tank. The sign above the tank advised that he was six months old and had been given up for adoption as he didn’t like children or vacuum cleaners. Enjolras sympathised. He leaned forward, smiling when the young cat opened one suspicious eye to observe the human staring at him through the glass. As their eyes met, Enjolras knew he had met his new friend.

He turned around, intent on telling Aire to stop looking, that the search was over, when he spotted his husband elbow-deep in a tank of kittens, one of which was in the process of clawing its way up his forearm. It managed to make it up to R’s shoulder where it attempted to make a nest in his curls. Enjolras raised an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.

“I have bad news, Enjolras,” Aire laughed, scratching the little ball of fur behind its ears. “I think I just got adopted.” The kitten purred loudly and contentedly against R’s neck, giving Enjolras a smug look. 

“Oh look, she’s adorable,” R crooned, walking slowly over to where Enjolras stood, arms folded.   
“Aren’t you an adorable little Aporia?”

Enjolras’s eyes widened and he stuttered.

“Why on earth would you call a cat ‘Aporia’?” He reached forward towards the kitten who hissed at him, a paw shooting out to bat his finger away. Enjolras retreated.

“Leave her alone,” Aire admonished, before turning his head slightly to mutter comforting words to the kitten along the lines of ignoring the nasty man. Enjolras found he was smiling in spite of himself. He turned back ruefully towards the silver tabby.

“Hey,” Aire plucked the kitten from his shoulder, giving her an affectionate rub of the head before returning her to the tank. “There’s space for two, you know.”

Enjolras smiled then, his whole face lighting up as he took Aire’s hand, dragging him over to the tank with the silver tabby. 

“Aire, meet Cleisthenes.” Enjolras introduced him formally as though presenting him to one of his friends. He frowned as Aire doubled over with laughter.

“Clay-what?!” he spluttered, trying and failing to get a grip on himself, his laughter only increasing at the cold look on Enjolras’s face. He did love that glare!

“I’ll have you know he’s the father of democracy,” he retorted in an injured tone, his nose in the air. R continued to laugh heartily as he crouched down to observe the cat who appeared to glaring at him just as much as Enjolras. Eventually he managed to swallow his laughter, his cheeks and ribs aching. He grinned up at his sulking husband.

“Poor thing,” he chuckle. “We’ll call him Cliff for short.”

+

R was outside sketching the sunset. The light here was so different, harsh and bright against very stark shadows. It was a delight to work with and he was going to have so much to send Cosette she wouldn’t know what hit her. 

It couldn’t be denied that the over-exposure to light and heat was working wonders with his depression. He was still on his meds, still under the care and guidance of yet another new doctor, but somehow he felt lighter over here. To have the sun so high in the sky seemed to make a difference somehow.

He heard the creak and clang of the screen door, signalling Enjolras’s approach. Soft arms circled him and a kiss was pressed to his forehead.

“You’re going grey, R,” Enjolras muttered into his hair.

“Cheers, babe, love you too,” He retorted, growling round the pencil between his teeth. He turned, pulling himself to his feet.

They stood together out in their “back yard” (Enjolras would always call it a garden, thank you very much) fingers interlaced, enjoying the warmth of the evening and the soft chirrup of cicadas. The sun arched low in the sky reflecting off the softly moving water of the swimming pool. Out in the field, they could see Aporia stalking through the long grass, her tall tail providing a clue to her movements. Aire dropped his head onto Enjolras’s shoulder.

“I think we’re here to stay,” R muttered softly. Enjolras smiled, overwhelmed by the feeling of warmth and contentment in that moment.

“It’s strange,” R mused, voice soft in the evening air. “I’ve never felt like that before. I feel as though my feet finally belong here, in this place.”

Enjolras turned to meet his lips with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what to say. So, erm, if anyone has any questions come find me on my tumblr (lynch888) and I'll try and answer to the best of my ability.
> 
> Other than that, it has been emotional.  
> Thank you x


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